Another pause. Another waiting game. I don’t rise for the bait, but I have to stuff myself down to do it.
“And you know why that is?” Alex asks. “Because his mom is Dr. Norcut.”
19
I stand under the hot water for ages and it never goes cold. I almost wish it would. I’d be forced to get out.
I face the shower spray and let the hot water burn the top of my head. Maybe Alex is lying? She’s mad at me. Could she be desperate enough to lie? Maybe. Probably.
But somehow, I can’t brush it off. My brain keeps circling something Milo said to me once, when we were outside the courthouse and he’d saved me by cutting Carson’s video feed.
“I understand you better than you know,” he’d said. “This is survival. We all do things we aren’t proud of.”
What if I’m one of those things?
It isn’t so much that his mother is my therapist that bothers me. It’s that he didn’t tell me. It’s why wouldn’t he tell me?
I grab the metal dial and crank the water off, stand there, dripping. Milo’s mother runs Looking Glass. Which means he wasn’t just “picked up.” He wasn’t hired on for some work. This isn’t casual.
Which also means all his interest in getting me to do as I’m told isn’t casual. It isn’t about me finding where I belong. It’s about getting me to play along. And I have played along—because they’re protecting Lily and Bren, because they’re protecting me. Think about Michael being loose. Think about how I was almost kidnapped.
Only . . . now I’m wondering how much of that could’ve been manufactured too. Chills ripple across my skin and when I close my eyes all I see is the grille of that SUV ramming into us. What if the whole almost-kidnapping was really just to gain my trust? To make me think there was a problem?
No. No way. Looking Glass had nothing to do with Michael’s release or Jason Baines’s death—two other reasons I’m here. I still don’t understand why I’m so special to them though. There are better hackers in the world. Is it because I was convenient? Because I was already caught? It’s possible, I guess.
And the pacemaker? It’s a cold, little voice whispering in my head. There were all of those excuses and all of it was so convenient and I so, so, so wanted to believe it.
Still do, because if I don’t . . . if I did—
My stomach heaves into my mouth and I yank the shower curtain aside and wrap the towel around me.
Don’t think about it. Think about Lily. Bren. Think about how Norcut and Hart are protecting them. I don’t like my therapist and I’m pretty sure she’s not a fan of me either, but we are useful to each other and that’s something . . . right?
And I’m all the way finished drying my hair before I realize that if Norcut and I are useful to each other, what does that make Milo and me?
My stomach makes another drunken lurch and I force myself into a clean T-shirt and jeans. It’s not the same thing.
Is it?
I sit down, hard, on the tub’s edge. In this light, Milo coming to work for Looking Glass seems awfully convenient. His excuse about the restaurant seems manufactured. Except . . . except, Milo and I get each other. You can’t fake that. We’re too alike for this to be just about usefulness or whatever. He took down Carson for me. Hell, he blew away a chunk of Judge Bay’s house for me too. He gave me the chance to get away and alerted the police. Milo specializes in stuff like that, creating wiggle room, spaces in between. We both escaped that night.
He even apologized for leaving me and he didn’t need to because I understood. I would’ve done the same.
Wrong thing to remember, though, because it leads me to Griff again. Griff, who heard about the explosion over the radio and came to the site.
Who had eyes only for my injuries.
Who walked away.
I stand, wrench open the bathroom door, and stop dead. Alex is sitting on her bed, legs stretched long. They’re crossed tight at the ankles and it almost hides how she’s vibrating.
“They need you upstairs,” she says and there’s a gotcha tone to her voice that makes my feet drag. “Someone’s sent you another message.”
Hart, Milo, and the rest of the guys are crowded around Kent’s computer station. I don’t think any of them even notice Alex and me until Milo steps away.
“Hey.” He comes so close there’s maybe an inch between us. If one of us takes a breath, we’ll touch. “How’re you feeling?”
“I’m . . . I’m . . .” I’m noticing for the very first time how Milo shares Norcut’s cheekbones and jawline. How did I not see this before?
“I’m okay,” I finish. “I took meds. Hopefully, it’ll head off the migraine.”
Milo smiles. I smile. And I have just enough time to realize we have the same smile before both of us turn toward the group.
Kent rolls his chair maybe an inch to the side to give me room. “What is this? It came to your email.”
I lean around him. There’s a Hushmail message on the screen—no greeting, just a string of numbers. “It’s an IP address,” I tell him. “See, every computer device has a numeric label assigned to it—”
“No shit. This one connects to some unsecured nanny cam in Connecticut. What are you doing?”
I pause, shake myself. “Nothing.”
“Then why would someone send you this?”
“I have no idea.”
“Wick.” Hart nudges Connor aside. “I need you to be honest about this.”
“I am. I don’t know anyone in Connecticut.” And I don’t. I have zero clue why anyone would send me that address unless . . . “Can you open it for me?”
Kent grunts but does it. The camera shot reveals a nice-looking living room. Lots of white slipcovers, beige walls, and jewel-toned modern art. Bren would like it.
But aside from that? Nothing looks like it should mean anything to me. It’s not familiar.
Hart crosses his arms. “Maybe it’s from one of your past clients?”
“I didn’t really work like that. My stuff was more background related—finances, job histories.” I chew my lower lip. There’s something here. I can feel it. “What’s the physical address?”
Kent minimizes the window and opens another tab in the browser. The IP address tracks to a Chris and Julian Moore. The names are just as unfamiliar as the living room.
In fact, the only thing familiar about any of this is the actual IP address. Or at least, the first part, and the realization makes my chest funnel tight. It couldn’t be . . . could it?
I lift my gaze to Hart’s and realize Milo’s drawn closer. He’s close enough to touch me now and I have to fight not to lean away. I focus on Hart instead, try not to fidget under the way his eyes cling to my face.
“Are you sure you don’t know them?” Hart presses.
“I’m pretty sure. I mean, I guess either of them could’ve used someone else to pose as my client, but why? It makes the whole thing complicated, cumbersome. He’d have to give his personal information to one more person and my people get nervous. They don’t like to do that.”
“What about the targets?” Hart’s arms tighten around his chest. “Maybe they’re one of the guys you looked into?”
“No.” I shake my head and study the names again. “No. I can go through my records, but I remember almost everyone I research. I spend too much time in their lives not to remember who they are.”
“Check anyway.”
I glance at Hart. The ever-present smile is gone, like it never, ever existed. His lips are bloodless.
“Of course.” I tap Kent’s shoulder. “Can you flip to the IP address again?”
He returns to the window and I trace my eyes over each number until I reach the end and my chest is even tighter than before. There’s no getting around it. I definitely know the beginning of the IP address. It’s Griff’s, belongs to the laptop he loaned me to catch Todd.
But it isn’t Griff’s because the last two digits don’t match. That’s why we’re in Conne
cticut, staring at two guys’ living room instead of staring at Griff’s bedroom. It’s got to be a coincidence.
So why doesn’t it feel like it?
“Whoever sent you this knows you.” Hart’s teeth snap as he speaks. “They knew to send it to this location. It has to be someone you know.”
“Maybe she’s supposed to see something,” Jake says.
Hart rounds on him. “How’s that work? She just sits around until someone shows up?”
“I don’t know.” Jake raises his long-fingered hands in surrender. “It was just a thought. I mean, that’s why you have nanny cams, right? So you can see whatever’s going on in your house?”
And just like that, my insides free-fall. No. Of course not. I am supposed to see something, but not here and not right now. That address looks like Griff’s IP because it’s almost Griff’s IP.
He contacted me.
He wants to talk and the realization unhinges me.
He changed the last two digits to tell me what time. 0-2. Two o’clock. I’m not sure whether that’s a.m. or p.m., but considering the message was sent at 2:53, I’m guessing it’s a.m. Tonight.
20
For three whole seconds, I’m not at Looking Glass. I’m not staring at a computer screen. I’m with Griff. I’m standing in the days after Todd, but in the weeks before I was blackmailed by Carson, when Griff’s touch felt like he was drawing a poem on my skin.
Why does every memory of him taste like hope?
“Wick?” Hart. His tone turns my name blunt and bloody. “Everything okay?”
Hart’s turned his back to Kent and the computer to focus on me. Actually, everyone’s focused on me.
I shiver. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just weird.”
Hart nods, waiting for me to add something else. I definitely want to, but I shrug like I don’t. My shoulders are strung so tight they pop. I want to ask about the cameras at Bren’s, but how do I do it without giving away Alex? Maybe I shouldn’t care. Maybe this is every girl for herself.
“Continue watching her email accounts,” Hart says, still focused on me. If he’s searching for a reaction, he doesn’t get it. I’m good at the glazed-eye look.
Then again, Hart’s good at it too. There’s nothing in his expression now. His eyes are shiny as marbles. He doesn’t believe me. Another line’s been crossed and I need to fix it, make it look like I’m on their side still.
Hell, I am on their side still.
“Hey, I’ve been thinking.” Kent snorts and I ignore him. “Do you think you could get copies of the security footage from my dad’s release?”
“You want to watch him leaving?”
“Yeah, I want to see who was with him.”
Hart perks up. “You think you’d recognize the guy?”
I pause, turning the question in my mind until it clicks. “You’ve already seen it.”
A single nod. “I can get the video clips to you immediately. We still have them on file.”
“Since when?”
“Since the day after it happened.” Hart faces me fully now. “We had to know, Wick. We’re keeping you—and your family—safe.”
He sounds so reasonable. Unease shouldn’t be trickling through me. It’s the same Hart from Bren’s living room. The same guy who worried searching for my dad was dangerous.
That it was backtracking.
He’s been looking out for me. So why am I feeling light-footed, like I’m seconds away from bolting? Because there’s something wrong here? Or because I can’t see straight? Because I’ve never been able to see straight when it comes to trust. I always pick the wrong person. I feel sorry for dangerous people and I don’t realize my mistake until it’s too late.
I’ve been a really great target over the years, which is hilarious since it’s the one thing I never wanted to be.
“I’ll make sure the files are in your Looking Glass account after dinner,” Hart says. “You can review them tonight or tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” I start to turn and Milo reaches for my arm.
“Wick—” he says.
I freeze and Hart steps between us. “I need a few more minutes with you, Milo.” He flicks his gaze to Alex. “Both of you can go. Remember there’s therapy tonight—and bring your completed homework. Don’t forget.”
It would be a little hard to, but both of us nod like we totally appreciate the reminder and shuffle for the door. Alex doesn’t say a word as we head toward the elevator. Once we’re inside though she faces me and waits.
And waits.
I grind my teeth to keep from snapping at her.
“Isn’t that interesting?” she asks at last. The doors open on our floor and we step off, Alex trailing so closely our sleeves brush. “You think he would’ve ever told you if you hadn’t asked?”
“Who cares? Point is, I did ask and I’m getting the files.” I sound so light; I almost believe it doesn’t needle me. I face her. “I need to borrow your phone.”
“Phone?”
“Don’t start.”
“Or what?”
“Don’t make me tell Hart.”
“Then neither of us will have a line to the outside.” She shrugs and swipes her key card through our room’s security pad. Inside, I lean against the frosted glass door as she rifles through her stuff.
“They’re protecting my family, Alex. I can’t lose that.”
She turns. “Are you convincing me? Or yourself?”
I don’t have an answer, but I don’t think I’m supposed to. She passes me the cell and the battery’s hot to the touch.
“Use it,” Alex says. “But only because I’m generous and because you’re going to need me, and I prefer it when people owe me favors.”
The rest of the evening drags. We have dinner. We have therapy. We turn in homework and Milo never shows.
When I ask about him, Hart shrugs and says, “Maybe he had something to finish up.”
Maybe, but if that were true, Hart wouldn’t be watching me like he’s waiting for a reaction. I smile like there isn’t something festering inside me and follow Alex back to our room. We don’t say much. We’ve both been assigned more homework and I’m nowhere near finished with my chemistry notes when I quit. Milo’s in my head, but the cell is calling me. I want to use the phone’s internet.
I want to search for Griff’s name.
I stuff my hand between the bed and the dresser, wiggling my fingers until I can tug the cell from its hiding spot. It’s kind of stupid how much I’ve missed my own phone. Holding this one makes me feel more like myself.
“Just can’t wait to make that call, huh?” Alex doesn’t look up from her math homework, but I like to think she can feel me giving her the bird. I jump off the bed and shut myself in the bathroom.
“What?” she calls. “You shy now?”
I prefer to think of it as being practical. I can’t afford to give her leverage.
But yeah, there might be some shyness too. Griff is mine. Not mine in the sense that I own him. More like . . . it’s personal. What we had was something that belonged to me. Just me. And the loss of it sinks me to the floor.
I press my shoulders to the tiled wall and search Griff’s name. Top two results are local newspaper articles about his art school scholarship. He’ll be attending Savannah College of Art and Design in the fall, and even though both columns are basically the same thing, I reread them and I can’t stop my grin.
Griff always wanted to go to SCAD. It was part of his master plan, part of that happily ever after he wanted more than anything. And I want to concentrate on how this is wonderful and amazing and “a great example of a disadvantaged youth conquering adversity.”
But my brain keeps circling how close Griff came to losing it all.
Carson would’ve ruined that. Gladly. I traded myself for Griff. My future for his future. He will never know how close he came and I’m glad for that. Truly.
I think once you realize that safety is just an illusion, that family i
s just a word, and that everything is always on the edge of disappearing, nothing ever looks the same again. Because once you lose that belief, you don’t lose it just a little. You sink it ten thousand miles below your surface. In the muck. In the mire. And even if you resurrect those beliefs, they don’t look the same. They will never look the same.
Griff does though. As I’m scrolling through pictures of his drawings and articles about his art show wins, he looks exactly the same. Beautiful. Untouched. Not damaged. Damn sure not broken.
I close the cell’s browser and lie on the cold tile floor, stare at the ceiling until the minutes smear past and I’m chilled through. Alex turns the bedroom light off around one thirty, but I doubt she’s sleeping. She’s waiting, listening. We’re both watching each other now, hunting for cracks. If I were in her position, I wouldn’t lose this opportunity either.
The quieter she is, the better chance she can hear me.
Good luck with that, Alex, because there won’t be anything to hear. I downloaded an iCam app to the phone. The upside is I’ll be able to see Griff. The downside? He won’t be able to see me. I won’t be able to communicate any answers and the only way he’ll know I’m even there is when the cam goes live and the light turns on.
I check the phone’s screen: 1:55. Still a little more time.
I could so do without that. My heart’s already stuttering in my chest. If I get caught . . . best not to think about it.
1:59.
I sit up and open the app, plug in the address. The screen goes black, then gray, then fills with Griff and I can’t breathe.
His eyes flick to the top of his screen—probably noticing the web cam light—and Griff bites his lower lip once before his gaze drops. I can’t tell where he is. The surroundings are dim and people are passing by. It’s definitely not his bedroom, so . . . internet café? It’s awfully late for a Starbucks.
Griff scoots lower in his seat, passing one hand over his jaw. It’s the same T-shirt, same scruff, but he looks . . . strained. Exhausted.
I tell myself it has to be the lighting.
His attention dips, and briefly, I’m confused; then he lifts a pad of paper. There are a few lines scribbled across the page:
Trust Me Page 11
