I retreat a step, force myself to breathe as Wick picks at her clothes. “She just said shit about how suicides will burn in hell and . . .”
Wick looks up at me and hesitates. I don’t know why. Once again, she’s light-years ahead of me and I’m tripping after her, but there’s something churning in her eyes, and the way she’s looking at me . . . it has my eyes dipping to her mouth. Would she let me kiss her? Stop it.
“So Jenna was being Jenna,” I prod. “And that got you into the Dumpster how?”
“It just got out of hand.” Wick’s swiping at her jeans again, then stops, eyes bugging. She extends one hand in front of her in horror, gaping like she doesn’t recognize it. Or doesn’t want to recognize it.
Gross. I don’t really blame her. Her palm’s covered in some sort of slime.
“Here.” I dig through my backpack and find my Windbreaker, hold it out to her. Wick stares at the jacket with that same something churning in her eyes. I’m not sure whether I want to laugh or put my arms around her. It’s not like I’m proposing marriage, but this one thinks about everything before she does it.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” I grab Wick’s wrist and use the jacket’s soft underside to clean her palm. The stuff’s disgusting and I have to turn the jacket twice to get her skin clean. Wick’s face never changes, never betrays anything she might be feeling.
Her pulse does though. It speeds under my fingertips.
“You must have cared a little,” I say, concentrating on her palm so I don’t have to pay attention to the heat spreading through my stomach. “Or you wouldn’t have started anything.”
“Oh, please.” My thumb presses into her lifeline and Wick jerks, snatching her hand away. “As if I ever needed an excuse to run my mouth.”
True. It’s one of the sexiest things about her . . . that and how she’s looking at me like I don’t affect her, like her heartbeat isn’t thumping. We’re so close I can see her pulse tapping at the thin skin of her throat.
What would happen if I could convince Wick to let herself go?
I force my eyes to hers. Get it together, Griffin. This is another real conversation—the second in two days. I’m not going to blow it. “So what’d you do?”
“I called Jenna Maxwell a bitch.”
“Seriously?”
She smiles—actually it isn’t a smile, it’s an eff you—and suddenly, we’re back to where we were last week. Hell, we’re back to where we’ve always been, like the stuff that happened before never existed. I’m not letting her off that easy.
“I want to know, Wick. Why would you even bother?”
“Because someone had to say it.” She glances away—to the Dumpster, to the school, to her shoes. “She’s telling everyone Tessa’s going to go to hell because she committed suicide.”
It’s barely above a whisper and still nails me in the gut. I pause. Maybe we’re not back to where we were. Wick’s not looking at me, but she is confiding in me. I don’t know what to say to make her feel better, but the asshole inside me is damn happy she’s talking to me about more than homework assignments.
I ease closer. “Then she’s an idiot. I’m sorry about what she said though. People are stupid, thoughtless. I’m sorry you had to hear it.”
“I want to know if Tessa saw the same things my mom saw. I want to know if she came to the same conclusion—if they both did. I mean she must have, right?”
Her voice catches and we both go still. I’m not good with tears, but for this girl, I’d try.
Wick takes a quick breath, attention pinned to the horizon. “How can we all just keep swimming along when some of us are drowning? How can we not know?”
I try to think of some comforting answer and come up with nothing. All I can think about is my dad’s desertion and my mom’s implosion. Sometimes knowing doesn’t matter. It definitely doesn’t help you move on.
You can’t keep people from hitting the ground if they’re determined to jump. Everyone has a death wish. It’s just a matter of how they want to go, but that doesn’t stop some of us from trying to save them. It’s like an effing curse and it makes you feel so alone . . . until you find someone else who’s living through the same hell.
I don’t know how to say that though, because this is Wick, the girl who has no feelings, and she’s disintegrating right in front of me.
“Because you can’t save them all,” I say at last. “But sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can save one.”
I’m not sure how it happened, but Wick’s drifted closer. Our sleeves are brushing and, carefully, I put one arm around her shoulders and, yeah, her hair smells like garbage, but when she finally leans into me, it might be the best feeling ever.
I duck my head, cheek touching her temple. “Sometimes you have to save yourself by asking for help.”
Wick stays so still, like she’d let me hold her forever until she stiffens.
“Griff,” Wick says, clearing her throat. “I need your help.”
14
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Wick’s telling me how Tessa Waye was raped and that’s why she jumped, how Wick has Tessa’s diary and that Tessa’s little sister gave it to her.
How Wick wants to fix this and doesn’t know how, but maybe I could help her and maybe we could make it right.
I stare, focusing on Wick—hell, focusing on me. I’m trying to keep my mouth from hanging wide open. Wick’s not just looking for absolution. She’s looking for help. Holy shit.
I stare at Wick and she stares at me. Her chin lifts. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
That you’re crazy? That you’re playing with fire? And for what? I can’t say any of that, and she squeezes her eyes shut against my silence.
“Why do you care?” I ask suddenly. I don’t get it. Why would Wick give a damn about that girl? “Tessa Waye didn’t know you existed.”
“We were friends . . . once.”
Evasive. She sounds just like my mom and her friends. “There’s more to this. What aren’t you telling me?”
Wick’s mouth works, but no sound emerges. My chest shrinks. Withholding. I don’t need it.
I shake my head. “Yeah, I don’t do the work if I don’t know the deal.”
“It’s Lily,” she blurts, and for a second, I think her legs are going to collapse. “Lily’s his next target. I need help getting to the guy.”
“Wait. Are you the one who posted on Tessa’s Facebook page? Who said the thing about knowing who killed her?”
She nods and I gape, feeling like my world’s just tilted sideways. “Wicked . . . if this is true . . . you’re taunting a fucking psychopath.”
“I—” The first bell rings, startling both of us.
“We can’t do this here.” I rub one hand through my hair, watching Wick. “We need to get going.”
She lifts her chin again. The gesture’s starting to feel familiar. She does it when she’s scared.
“Well?” Wick asks.
“Griff? Wick?” Our teacher, Mrs. Harding, appears to my left, Shane Hallowell right behind her. No doubt they’re both on their way to World History. Wick and I should be too.
“Hey, Wick. Hey, Griff.” Shane waves, looking pitiful. Actually, Shane always looks pitiful. I think it’s a permanent setting.
“I’ve been looking for you, Griff,” Mrs. Harding says. She’s close enough to get a good whiff of Wick, and her eyes start to water. “You need to come with me. They’ve asked to see you in the front office.”
The front office? I freeze. Did something happen to my mom? I can feel Wick’s eyes on me, but I don’t trust myself to look at her. I’m still processing. Bottom line . . . I have to work with Carson. Everything she just told me? It’s exactly what he wants. I have to give it to him.
I shake myself. “Sure, Mrs. Harding.”
Our teacher nods, turning her attention to Wick. “You’re going to be late, Wicket.”
“Right. On my way.” Only she isn’t. Wick’s pasted to the spot
, staring at me, waiting. This is where I need to reassure her and I . . . can’t.
I walk off, making it to the front office just as a dark-haired woman’s pushing through the double doors, heading toward the parking lot. My heart double-thumps.
“Mo—” It’s not. I slow down, stop.
“Hello, Griff.” Carson’s voice is syrupy again. All the hairs on my arms stand straight. “Sorry to pull you out of school like this.”
No, you’re not. I turn. “Is something wrong?”
The detective’s slumped against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles. “Could be. Your mom had a bit of an accident. She’s fine, but, well, there might be some charges.”
Briefly, my head goes fuzzy, like I’m floating. Then I drop back into myself. Hard. “What kind of charges?”
“Drunk-and-disorderly mostly. Her friend was driving, so he’ll bear the brunt of it. You know how these things go.” Carson pushes away from the wall and pans his hands to either side, palms toward the ceiling. He’s grinning like he couldn’t stop if he tried. “No telling what else we might find in her car. It was impounded, so the officers will have plenty of time to look it over. Think we’ll find anything you should be worried about?”
No idea. “Of course not.”
“Good. That’s good. Fine will definitely be steep to get it out though.”
I stay still, watching him.
Carson scratches behind his ear. “Reminded me that I hadn’t heard from you in a while. Thought maybe I could help you out. You’re a nice kid, Griff. You don’t deserve any of this, so I thought you’d want to do your interview now. I’ll take you to the station—unless you want to do it here.”
I swallow. “Great. Let’s go.”
The detective’s eyes go so bright it makes my stomach queasy. What the hell am I going to say? Do I give him everything?
Nothing?
Wick’s terrified face is all I can see. She’s deep into this, a walking target now. By not asking anyone for help or protection . . . Christ, this is bad. Why would she even tell me?
I sit up straight even as my stomach sinks. Holy shit. She told me because she trusts me. Out of all the people in the world, she trusts me. Actually, no, that’s wrong. It’s not out of all the people in the world. It’s out of the few people in her world. She trusts me and I don’t know what to do with that. The gift seems too big.
Especially for someone who would get paid for betraying her.
I follow Carson to the unmarked sedan parked by the front curb. He opens the door for me like I’m a chick, and from the corner of my eye, I think I see a flash of red. I don’t turn. I can’t risk it. I get into the car and Carson drives us away.
We get to the station just as Ben is coming off shift. My cousin’s head jerks higher when he sees us walking through the parking lot. He speeds up, ever eager to catch Carson.
“Hey, so this must mean good progress, yeah?” Ben asks, eyes bouncing between the detective and me.
“Did you need something, Officer?” Carson’s fingers stab into my upper arm as we sidestep Ben. I throw him off. He’s not going to march me into the station like I’m under arrest. “Don’t you have reports to finish?”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Ben sounds so deflated I want to turn around and punch him. Does no one see how this guy acts? How can they all believe his front?
Carson yanks open one of the glass doors and motions me through. We pass the front desk and weave through the bull pen, all the surrounding officers stopping whatever they’re doing to say hello to Carson.
This is bullshit, but the detective works the room like a total pro—just enough ass-kissing to the older officers so they feel like they’re special and just enough condescension to the younger officers so they have something to work for.
Honestly, I’m kind of grateful for the break. I still don’t know what to say to him. I need the pay. I need to fix things for my mom, but I don’t know how I can live with myself if I tell Carson everything Wick told me.
When we finally make it to the detective’s office, Carson unlocks the door and drops heavily into his desk chair. “Shut that behind you, okay?”
I nod, taking the chair opposite him. I focus on Carson’s forehead so I don’t have to meet his eyes.
“You like our new arrangement? Your mother was happy to sign the consent forms for us to speak privately. Remember to thank her.”
I force my jaw to relax. “Where is she?”
“Holding cell. She’s sobering up. You’ll get her back.”
I pause. There’s something about the way Carson says I’ll get my mother back that makes me realize the detective thinks she’s in his power. He can give her to me. Or take her away.
“So,” Carson begins, steepling his fingers. “What’s new?”
“Nothing yet. Bender has my program. He’s working on his end. They want to move fast though; we should have a follow-up meeting soon.”
“Good. Keep me posted on that. I have plans.”
“Such as?”
Carson hesitates. He doesn’t trust me. After all, I’m a narc, but I’m also Ben’s little cousin, a “good kid,” and Carson is a sucker for people who fit under that label. I’m betting on that and, when the detective relaxes, I know I have him.
“I’m going to catch them in the act,” Carson says. “All of them. You tell me when the next meeting is and I’ll make sure my team hauls away Bender, Wick, and anyone else who’s helping them. We’ll take the computers, their contacts, everything. It’ll be like they never existed.”
Like Wick never existed. I exhale through my nose until my head stops ringing. “Good idea. I’ll keep you posted.”
“I expect it.”
“And when can I expect my mother’s release?”
“Tonight. It’ll take me a minute to smooth over everything.”
I nod, skimming my eyes over the office, the computer, Carson’s desk. There’s a folded newspaper on one corner. Tessa Waye’s smiling yearbook picture just beneath the headline.
I bump my chin toward it. “You must have your hands full with the Tessa Waye thing.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame. Lovely girl. Nice family.” Carson touches his fingers to Tessa’s picture and the gesture is almost . . . tender.
The detective’s eyes flick to mine. “You heard anything about it?”
“No. Just what the teachers told us.” I pause, Wick’s confession at the back of my mind and under my tongue. “Did you have any progress on who got into her Facebook account?”
Carson studies me. “Sort of. There have been some very new developments—pictures that were uploaded to the page and then disappeared.”
“Yeah?”
“Someone named Michael Starling did uploads from the Peachtree City library computers. We’re looking into it, of course.”
“What kind of pictures were put on Tessa’s Facebook?”
“Not sure. It was taken down—the whole page was deleted—but enough people corroborated that it was there. Photo of a little girl apparently. We’re working on recovering it.”
I nod. If Wick was behind the first Facebook message, could she be behind this one as well? And, even more worrisome, how long until Wick traces this Starling guy back to the library’s IP address? Would she go after him? She’d need the names from the library’s computer sign-in sheet.
“I want specifics, Griff. I know Wick’s not there for a tea party. What’s her role?”
I swallow, force myself to meet Carson’s eyes. I’ve lied a lot through the years—landlords, teachers, my mom’s bosses—I’m good at it . . . so why am I suddenly sweating?
Because it’s her and because it’s me. Before, when it came to Wick, I was just stupid. I said the wrong stuff. I made the worst jokes. Now, when it comes to Wick, I see myself. I see how much she’s straining against who she’s expected to be, and I get that. I know the scars expectations leave. I know how it feels like drowning, but it’s worse because you never die. You just rot.<
br />
“She’s not involved,” I say at last. “Worst you can get on her . . .” I pretend to think, even going as far as scrunching my face and looking off into the distance. Adults fall for this every time. It’s one of the advantages of looking like a choirboy. “The worst you can get on her is that she considers Joe Bender family.”
“I want more than that and you know it.” Carson studies me, unblinking. He’s waiting for me to fold and I won’t. I can’t. The only thing I really know now is he wants her to go down. When I told myself she could escape if I just left her enough room, if I just omitted enough of her actions, I didn’t realize how stupid I was being. Wick will never escape—not with this guy so hard up to catch her.
I can’t save her. You can’t save anyone, but I can’t hand her over either. I won’t be able to live with myself. Of course, I’m not sure I can live with the holes she’s dug in me either. There’s something breathing in the dark and it points always to her.
The detective leans forward. “Wicket has to have something to do with this. There’s no other explanation for her presence.”
“You’re wrong.” I keep my face blank, open. It’s so easy to say the actual lie—protecting her from Carson will be entirely different. “Why would I lie?”
15
The sun’s low on the horizon when Carson leaves me near the school’s lower entrance. I’ve gone in and out of these doors dozens of times, but right now, all I can think about is the first time I saw Wick and what she looked like this afternoon when she asked for help.
What the hell have I gotten myself into? I grab my history and math books from the bottom of my locker, looking up when sneakers squeak against the linoleum. A dark-haired girl is power walking toward me, car keys already in hand. Lauren Cross, Wick’s best friend.
It’s not like we know each other that well, and I almost turn back to my locker, ready for her to pass—and then see my opportunity, remember it actually. If everyone’s going to be at Lauren’s party, maybe that means Wick will be too.
“Hey,” I say, spinning my combination lock.
Lie for Me Page 8
