Trust Me (18 page)

My heart double thumps. “No.”

Griff slowly pivots, expression frozen, watchful. “It's like . . . tapping.”

“I don't hear anything.”

Griff walks past me, loops through the bedrooms, and pauses next to me again, listening. “I thought . . . I could have sworn . . . never mind.”

His attention is now trained on the street below. From this angle, we can see the neighbors across the pitted street and most of the front yard. A car drives past, stirring the brittle pikes of grass.

“Think Carson'll come through the rear?” I ask.

Griff thinks for a beat and then nods. “He'll have to. Can't risk being seen by the neighbors any more than we can.”

We start for the stairs and Griff stops, checks his phone. A text message from Carson has lit the screen:

Almost there. House clear?

I stiffen. “Why would he ask that?”

“Part of my job to check the meeting sites. More natural for me to be seen around the neighborhood than him. I checked Joe's house for him too.” Griff's eyes lift to mine and he grins. “Who do you think was living in that nasty sleeping bag?”

“Carson?”

“Fallen pretty far, hasn't he?” Griff puts the cell in his pocket.

Tap . . . tap . . . scraaaatttccchhhh
.

Both our heads snap back.

“Tell me you heard that,” he whispers.

“Yeah. It's rats.” I swallow. “I used to hear them in the walls all the time.”

Griff makes a disgusted noise. “Let's do this in the kitchen. If we make him face us, we'll be closest to the door. Anything goes to crap, we'll be first out.”

I nod and Griff follows me downstairs. It's a decent setup for the meeting. I know my ground. I know the exits. I'm as in control as I can be . . . so why does something still feel wrong? Is it just because the house has been searched?

My foot hits the bottom step and I stop dead. “Electrical sockets.”

“What?”

I turn to Griff. “All the spaces that someone's searched. They're all
small
spaces—the gaps behind cabinets, the spaces behind light switches. Whatever they're looking for, it's small.”

He nods. “Yeah, you're probably right.”

“And they know it's here.”

“Or they
think
it's here.”

I spin and start running, Griff close behind me. “They just didn't know where to look.”

“Do you?”

Yes. Maybe. I think so. I round the corner into the kitchen. The door to the garage is still closed. Griff's half a step behind me and I can feel his scoff against the back of my neck.

“The garage? Where would you hide something out there? Under all the concrete?”

“Exactly.” I pretty much hate the house, but the garage is a special sort of creepy. We weren't allowed in there because Michael used it for cooking meth and God knows what else.

In the interviews with my mom, she mentioned trying to get in and how he kept it locked. The officers wouldn't listen. They kept pressing her to get inside.

Now that I'm standing in the middle of it, I wonder
what she would've found. A meth lab? Servers and computers? Nothing?

There's a whole lot of nothing right now. The garage door has droopy black plastic garbage bags taped to the windows, letting in more light than they block. The small side door is ajar, a slice of sunlight appearing and disappearing as the door wobbles in the breeze. There's a jagged crack in the concrete floor. It follows the far wall, forking through dark paint splattered in the corner.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Whoever took the house apart knew Michael's hiding spots. They knew him or, at least, they thought they did, but . . .”

“But?”

“But they should've known most of what Michael did took place in here. Check the walls.” I veer right, skimming both palms along the cinder blocks and digging my fingernails into the chipped concrete. Griff takes the other side, and for a few minutes, we work in total silence. There's nothing but the scuff of our shoes and the tap of the side door as it swings against the frame.

“Holy shi—” Griff kneels and scrabbles at the wall. I turn, watch as he drags a cinder block to the side . . . then another . . . and another.

There's a darkened space behind the wall.

“Huh,” he says, rocking onto his heels. “Did you know about this?”

“No, it was just a guess. Joe and Michael spent a lot of time out here.”

Griff shifts the blocks around, lining them against the wall. They fit together pretty neatly, and in the dim light, you'd have to be fairly close to realize the grout was loose.

In other words, you'd have to know where to look.

I lean down and stick my hand inside. My fingers graze rough concrete . . . rough concrete . . . plastic?

It's a balled-up plastic baggie. There's a small black case inside of it and inside the small black case is an SD micro card.

“Here.” Griff passes me his phone. “Access my Google drive. See if you can upload the files and then we can read them from there.”

I slide the SD card drive into the cell's base, praying the phone will recognize it. The screen illuminates and a green bar expands as Griff steps me through his Google drive passwords. A few minutes later, I'm thumbing through the files. “Looks like . . . spreadsheets . . . and PDFs . . .” I scroll farther down. “Audio files?”

I select the first and bump the cell's volume a little higher. The speaker crackles.

“Can you get to her?” I stiffen. It's Hart. Even on a bad recording, his voice is assured, almost lazy, like he can't be bothered.

“I've already gotten to her. Look at me.” Milo's words are a blow.

Please don't let them be talking about me.

Please don't let them be talking about me.

Please don't let them—

There's noise on the recording. I can't tell if it's static or some sort of movement until Hart says, “Ah, Detective Carson. I'm so glad you could join us.”

“Is that . . . ?
No
.” Griff's feet don't move, but he leans away, sucks in a single breath. “Can't be. He said they were
after
him.”

“I don't have time for this, Hart,” Carson continues. “Part of your job is to handle these things.”

“And by handling it, you mean take Bay down?”

“He's a loose end.”

“Because you don't like sharing the profits with him?” Even in the recording, I can hear the smile in Hart's voice. “Or because you don't like that he outranks you? We
need
Bay. Without him, we can't source the jobs. Without Norcut, we can't source the kids. Without the kids, we don't have a front.”

“And in six months, a year, that won't matter.”

Static again. No one's saying anything. Because they're
staring at each other? Because they left? Why wouldn't it be a big deal that Looking Glass “won't matter” in a year? Suddenly, Hart asks, “Who told you that?”

“No one,” Carson says. His voice is louder now, but it's not like he's yelling, more like he's moved closer to the microphone. “Put that one together myself. Why? Were you planning on leaving me behind?”

Static—a long stretch of it.

“You sound worried,” Hart says, laughter beneath his words.

“Hardly. I know where the bodies are buried around here.”

“Unfortunate choice of words, my friend.” This time, it's Milo who speaks. Like the detective, he sounds closer. There's a whispery noise now too. Maybe papers moving? “Remember what happens to people who cross us.”

Carson makes a strangled noise. “Is that a threat?”

“It's an observation,” Milo says. “You'd do really well to remember it.”

“Where do we stand with the money?” the detective asks. “Have you tracked it yet?”

“We will,” Hart says.

“Which means no. Tate is in jail. He's immobilized. This shouldn't be so hard for you.”

Hart grinds his words through his teeth: “We
will
find it.”

“And the girl?”

“She's not going anywhere.” Hart. Again, I can hear the
smile in his voice. “Don't worry.”

Chills again. The girl. That has to be me. I glance at Griff and his face is anguished. He knows it too.

I jam my thumb against the back button. The audio file resets and I mash play. We listen to the whole thing again, staring at each other. With every word, Griff goes paler and paler.

The recording clicks off. There's nothing left and I'm half tempted to replay the conversation once more, but I don't have it in me. We're not any further ahead. If anything, I'm behind a step. Or ten.

I had no idea Carson was involved. None. God, I feel stupid. We're about to meet him.

“They cut him out,” Griff says at last. “Carson. He worked with them and they cut him out. Why would they do that?”

“Less people to split the money with? It sounded like they're preparing to close the whole thing down anyway. Milo said Norcut and Hart knew they were being watched. Maybe they were getting ready to run?”

“But they couldn't run without the money your dad stole. When was this recorded anyway?” Griff's mouth slackens as he counts backward. “They said they needed Bay because of his position so that would be when? Earlier this year, right?”

I nod. “Would have to be. After his sons . . . after all of that, he withdrew from everything, pretty much disappeared.”

“So that means
what
? This was recorded sometime around when you got the first of your mom's interviews?”

My stomach squeezes. “Probably. It was the same night Bay announced his intention to run for office again.”

Somewhere outside, a woman laughs and we both stiffen. There are two slams and a car engine starts. Not good. We need to get moving. Leave, meet Bren, and make a plan.

What a joke. What kind of plan do you come up with for this? I want to put my head between my knees.

“What are you thinking?” Griff asks.

I drag my attention to him. “Nothing. Everything. It's a lot to take in. . . . Milo planted that bomb evidence at Carson's storage unit. He said he did it as payback for me. What if he was really doing it just to get Carson out of the way?”

“It worked. He's definitely hosed.”

“Just like Bay. Carson was determined to bring him down, kept saying how Bay was corrupt.” I'm staring at the stain on the garage floor again. The car and the laughing woman are long gone, and in the silence, I keep hearing my father say: “It's a matter of knowing people's pressure points. You can bring down someone far more powerful than you are—if you know where to hit.”

“Hart and Norcut,” I say slowly. “They knew where to hit Bay. They couldn't have anticipated Ian and Jason, but what if they knew there was a secret? What if they knew by pushing it, they would make Bay's takedown look natural?”

“No. No way. That's a huge stretch.”

“True, but still . . . it feels like there's something there.”

“No one anticipated Ian Bay and Jason Baines trying to kill their father for Ian's inheritance.”

“For an inheritance or for money Bay already had access to because he was an owner?” We'll never know the truth—Ian's still in jail and Jason's dead—but if they knew anything about the kind of money Bay might have had access to as an owner . . .

I study the file listing, opening the first few Excel documents. They're filled with Looking Glass information—customer accounts, billable hours. If this is true, Norcut and Hart were bringing down millions.

Or they were until my sister helped herself to some of them.

I pass the phone to Griff, watch him grimace as he scrolls through the same information.

“All of this is about money,” I say. “Carson told me he knew the judge was dirty. He said taking Bay down would be a public service. Maybe that's how he justified it to himself. But, bottom line, Hart and Norcut sicced Carson on Bay. They knew where to hit the judge and then they knew where to hit Carson. When Milo planted those explosives, it was never about me. It was about Looking Glass. It was about making sure Carson didn't get up again. Bay was a problem and then so was Carson.”

Griff's gaze lifts, meets mine. “And now you are.”

Outside, the wind blows harder and the side door presses against the jam, smothering the sole source of fresh air and making the garage's heat even more unbearable. In a heartbeat, everything goes even more stagnant, smelling of dust and dirt and . . . copper.

Something smells metallic.

“Wick?”

I didn't even realize I was moving until Griff spoke. I pick my way carefully across the garage, toward the door, toward the stain. My tennis shoes stick to it and I have to hold my breath as I crouch, touch my fingertips to the concrete. They come away tacky and rust-colored and I gag. That's not paint.

That's blood.

“Griff.” I shoot to my feet so quickly my head goes
woozy. “Someone was hurt here.”

“What?”

“This is blood. When we came in, I thought it was paint, but it's
blood
.” I turn to him and stop. Griff's gone pale, almost gray, but he's not looking me. He's looking at his cell again.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I don't know. It's Carson again. He should be here by now, but . . .” His gaze flicks past me and lingers on the stain. In the dusty half-light, his eyes are antifreeze green. “But why would Carson send me this?”

He holds the phone toward me and I cross the garage to take a closer look.

There's a single text on the screen:

Did she find my present?

The back of my skull prickles and I pass Griff the phone. “Is he talking about the drive?”

Griff shakes his head. “He wouldn't
want
you to have that drive. He doesn't gain anything from showing us this. If anything, it makes us less inclined to help him and he told me he needed us.”

“Griff . . . how do we know it's Carson on the other end? What if someone took his phone? That's a big stain. What if it's Carson's blood?”

“No. No way. He's more useful alive . . . I think.”

I close my eyes, take a breath, and when I open them,
Griff is watching me like he already knows what I'm going to ask and he's dreading it. “What if someone wanted us to find this? Why would someone want us to know?”

“I have no idea.” Griff sighs. “All the information here? It's really confidential stuff. You don't just download it by accident and you damn sure don't hide it in an abandoned garage.”

“Unless you're leaving it as a present—a really specific present because it's filled with stuff I could use to take down Looking Glass. Hart gave me my mom's interview videos because they wanted to see how I would react, what I would do with the information. Is this the same deal?”

“Maybe it's a plant. If you use this information, they'd know how you were coming, how you were going to hit them.” Griff stops, shakes his head. “No. They'd also have to know you're here. Carson would've had to tell them and he sounded seriously scared when he talked about Looking Glass.”

It's a good point. Before he skipped town, Carson told me there were people who were worse than he was coming for me, but . . . “He's a really good liar,” I say at last. “It's not much of a stretch to think he could pretend. Maybe he really does want to help us. They definitely burned him. But why catch me here? It's not like they don't know where I live.” I summon a smile even as cold sweat leaks between my shoulder blades. “If you're going to kill someone, Griff, you don't do it where everyone can see you. You kill them in the dark.”

Or you make them jump off buildings.

Or you have your father slide a shiv into their side.

Griff pockets the phone and looks at me. “If he did tell them, they're waiting.”

“Then let's get the hell out of here.”

I pivot toward the kitchen and Griff catches my wrist. He winces, but doesn't let go, holding me softly like he's afraid I'll bite . . . or break.

“Me first,” Griff whispers.

“You always want to go first.” It's meant as a joke, but my timing (as usual) sucks because now we're both thinking of how we chased Todd through the dark to save Lily. Griff leans into me, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead, and then eases us into the kitchen, spends a few moments staring through the window above the sink.

The yard looks the same as it did before. No matter how hard I hunt the tangled woods at the dead grass's edge, I don't see anyone. We're still alone.

“Stay here, okay?”

He's gone before I can agree, disappearing into the front of the house. I lean against the countertop, both arms folded against me, and listen to his soft footfalls. He's in the dining room. Should be able to see—

Tap . . . tap . . . scraaaatttccchhhh
.

I freeze, listening. That's not Griff, but it's not rats either. The sound's faint, easily buried under whispers, but now, in the silence . . .

Tap . . . tap . . . scraaaatttccchhhh
.

I hold my breath and force myself around. Griff's standing in the kitchen doorway and his eyes are huge. He heard it too.

Did she find my present?

“Anyone out front?” I whisper.

He shakes his head and we both pause, listen.

Tap . . . tap . . . scraaaatttccchhhh
.

“Then what's that?” I point to my left, not really because the noise is coming from the left, more because I'm scared and I need to do something and yet . . . wait a minute. “Griff,” I say. “When you checked the kitchen, did you open the hatch in the pantry?”

He stares at me.

Oh God. This cannot be happening.

I cross the kitchen and nudge open the pantry door. The pantry itself is empty, but there's a four-foot-high panel by my feet and a pretty big space behind the panel. I think it was originally supposed to house the water heater or something, but Michael walled it in, used it to store stuff occasionally.

Lily and I used to hide there, which was pretty stupid because he always knew where to find us.

I'm sweating
and
shaking now. I kneel, work slippery fingers around the edge. The panel falls away too easily, and suddenly, I'm staring at him.

Carson's smile is a smear of blood. “Hello, Wick.”