I only have a few minutes. This was the safest way to talk I could think of.
I nod and immediately feel stupid. He can’t see me, but I agree with him. Video feeds aren’t as easily monitored as calls. This is smart for both of us. Griff flips the pad again and dashes off a few more lines:
Michael’s looking for something. Rumor says it’s money.
I tense. That . . . doesn’t make any sense. Why would Michael be looking for money? He already has the eleven million he stole from Looking Glass.
Doesn’t he?
Griff’s eyes track over and over the screen. I want to call him, but even if I could, I’m not sure I could find my voice. I feel suddenly buried.
He turns the pad, tears off the top page, and scrawls another line:
Rumor also says you stole it from him.
Stole it? I slump forward. I didn’t even know about it until this week. And furthermore, rumor from who? Rumor from around the neighborhood? From one of Michael’s guys? The first doesn’t worry me. The second does. A lot.
Griff waits, studying the screen before flipping the pad around once again. This time, he takes a little longer, hesitates before turning it to me.
That means he’s looking for you.
My heart stutters and I have to force myself to breathe. Breathe again. It’s fine. It is. I knew Michael was looking for me. Aside from the searching-for-money thing, Griff isn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know.
Too bad no matter how many times I repeat this to myself, my stomach is still sloshing around my feet. Michael thinks I stole money from him? This is bad. This is very, very bad.
Griff’s eyes return to the top of the screen, lingering. He flips the pad around, jots another line, and holds it up:
I hope you’re safe.
“I hope you’re safe too,” I whisper, and once again, my fingers itch to dial his cell, to take the risk. I could stuff towels underneath the door and crank the shower full blast. Maybe I could get away with it. I want to ask him about the viruses again, see if he has any idea who would be trying to warn me.
Griff turns the pad to him and makes a quick slash across it, then turns it to me:
I wish I’d told you how much I miss you.
He hesitates again, opening his mouth like there’s something else to say, and I lean toward the screen because I’m ready for it, but he shakes his head once. Twice. He grabs the top of his laptop and closes it. My screen goes black and he’s gone.
21
The smart thing to do would be to go to bed, but even if I did, it’s not like I’m going to sleep. I push to my feet, and once I’m standing, all I can feel is how my legs are shaking.
I clear the phone’s history and unlock the bathroom door, grab my Chucks from the floor, and toss the cell onto Alex’s bed.
She catches it. “Where are you going?”
“To work. You want to follow me there too?”
“Nah.” Alex settles deeper into bed. She’s just a shadow now. “If you’re going to work for them, I don’t need to see it.”
She pitches the cell at me and I have to put up both hands to avoid being clipped in the face.
“Keep it,” Alex says. “You know you want to.”
“Not enough to risk getting caught.”
“Who’s going to tell?”
I can’t bring myself to say she would, but my silence does it for me.
Alex’s laugh is smoke in the dark. “Call your sister. It’ll only prove me right. I dare you.”
I jam the cell into the waistband of my jeans and pad down the hall, stuff my feet into my shoes as I wait for the elevator. Upstairs, the workstations are under low lights, but Kent’s still working away, one hand on his keyboard and the other wrapped around a plastic Big Gulp. A gift from Hart? I would’ve thought Kent’s standards would be higher.
“What’re you doing?” he asks around a mouthful of crushed ice.
I shrug. “What’re you doing?”
“I have important things going on.”
“Yeah. Clearly.” I drop into my seat, rub the back of my neck as I wait for my computer to boot. As promised, the video file is in my email, and at first I’m slightly confused because there should be more files—different angles from different cameras—and then I realize everything’s been edited into one clip.
There’s my dad emerging from some holding cell . . . another few seconds of him coming down one hallway . . . and then another hallway . . . and then to a processing area. There’s a desk and some guy manning the desk.
Michael waits as they go through his paperwork. From this angle, I can really see him. He’s dropped weight and there’s a smudge of darkness near his collar. A new tattoo?
Clipboards pass between two guards, and ever so briefly, my dad’s eyes lift to the camera and hold. His gaze flicks left then right, counting the cams probably. I squirm. It’s another habit we share.
Whatever was on the clipboard apparently made the second guard happy because he waves Michael through. The video jumps to my dad going down another hallway . . . through another secured door . . . and into an open receiving area. A blond guy is waiting for him and they walk out. There’s maybe another forty-five seconds of the two of them leaving the parking lot. Walking.
Whoever this guy is, he was smart enough not to leave his car where the plate would be picked up by the security cams. Which probably means he left it down the road a bit. Risky. There isn’t a cop alive who wouldn’t check an abandoned vehicle that close to the jail.
Maybe somebody else met them?
I watch the whole thing again. And then once more. Hart’s right. It’s not particularly useful. Yeah, Michael doesn’t look surprised, so you could assume he knew what was coming, but the biggest problem is not knowing Blondie’s real identity. He had the release papers. He walked both of them straight through the doors. That means purpose; he needs Michael for something.
The money? That can’t be it—not if my dad thinks I have it. Unless . . . unless Blondie is supposed to help Michael get it back.
I skim two fingers over my still scabby forearm. Did Blondie pull me from Hart’s car in the accident? If so, who was waiting in the SUV?
My stomach threatens to swoop into my mouth and I swallow. Get a grip. There’s no point in speculating. I need to stick to what I do know: There are some serious connections at work here. You don’t get those kinds of papers at Walmart or whatever. This took thought, planning, and the right kind of forger.
I don’t know anyone capable of pulling it off and I know—knew—most of my father’s contacts. I rewind a few frames to watch the two men walk out like it’s no big deal. Maybe Michael’s expanded his circle of friends since landing in jail? I mean I guess it’s possible, but wouldn’t that sort of thing take money?
Which Michael doesn’t have. He’s never had.
Except maybe he did and now he thinks I have it.
I pause the video and rewind it until I’m at the receiving area again. They don’t shake hands. I can’t see Michael’s expression since the camera’s behind him, but the blond guy seems relaxed enough. This could be any other day. Like he does it all the time.
And that worrisome feeling I’d had earlier breathes up from the grave I put it in.
It couldn’t be.
Or is it because I don’t want it to be?
I rewind frame by frame until I’m dead on Blondie. The angle’s perfect and I need to know this, but I still have to take a deep, deep breath before I open the editing program. It takes me a few minutes to manipulate the images. I have to enlarge his face and smooth some of the pixilation.
I don’t know a ton of cops. I know the faces of the few who came to our house for domestic disturbances. I could probably pick out the one or two who worked security at our school. And then, of course, there was Carson.
Blondie is definitely not Carson.
But he is one of Carson’s guys.
I twist my chair from side to side and glare a
t my reflection in the windows. Every minute or so, Kent looks my way and our eyes meet. His narrow. Mine narrow. I give him the finger and he turns completely around and focuses on his computer again.
I don’t know what to do. I still don’t know Blondie’s name, but I do recognize him. He was riding shotgun in Carson’s car one day when I left the jail. I didn’t think too much of it after the detective disappeared, but Carson had a team that worked for him back when he was a rising star in the police department. I assumed they were reassigned once he was put under investigation.
What if this one is still working for him? Maybe he thinks Carson’s innocent? The detective’s been running for over a month now. What if they’re trying to clear Carson’s name?
I mentally kick myself. There’s no connection between Carson and Michael other than Carson hunted and arrested my father. Why would he get Michael out of jail?
Or better yet: What would Carson gain by Michael getting out of jail?
Of course, that’s assuming Blondie still works for him—unless Blondie works for my dad.
Now that’s a disturbing thought. I keep my eyes on Kent, but he doesn’t turn around. I twist my chair some more, still thinking. Michael’s been in jail for months. Why wait until now to escape? Why not do it sooner? What changed?
I sigh, rub my forehead. Because he thinks I stole the money from whatever super-secret account he put it in? That’s stupid. I haven’t been around the neighborhood in months—not since Griff and I were still dating. And it would have to be somewhere in the neighborhood, somewhere physical. The Feds knew about his bank accounts. If it had been deposited, they would’ve found it and confiscated it, right?
Maybe. I’m having a hard time thinking past my fear. My father’s loose and I’m afraid. It’s filling every corner of me and I am so ready to be done with being scared.
Beyond our windows, pink and gray light leaks past the neighboring building. It’s almost seven thirty and my thoughts leap—and cling—to Lily. I have the cell. I could call. No one would know . . . unless Lily’s phone is tapped too. But if it’s not . . . if I had a shot at talking to her . . .
Hope tiptoes along my spine on spider legs. I’m not supposed to contact them. Those are the rules. Bren even told Norcut she didn’t want me to, but surely—surely—Lily doesn’t agree. I just need to know they’re okay. I just need . . . my sister. She’s worth the risk.
I stand, stretch. There’s still no reaction from Kent so I wander to the door, down the hall.
The girls’ bathroom is to my left and I never once look at the security camera. I am my father’s daughter right now. I’m pretending everything is fine. Inside, I turn on all the faucets, sit in the first stall, and stare at the phone.
Problem is, if the house really is wired, there are probably bugs as well. Hart and Norcut will hear everything. Which means my best shot at reaching Lily is right now—before school, but after she’s left the house.
They haven’t wanted to talk to me. What if she hangs up? I’m not sure I could handle that.
Then again, I definitely can’t handle not knowing. I want to hear her voice. I want someone I can trust telling me they’re okay.
Even so, my fingers are slick on the keypad. I hold the phone to my ear, listen to it ring. Ring again. What if it goes to voice mail?
I switch ears. I can’t decide whether to leave a message. Leaving one would be as bad as having a conversation around the bugs and cameras. It would leave a trace and totally compromise this phone. And if Lily really doesn’t want to talk to me and she shows the message to Bren, I’m beyond hosed.
On the other hand, I may have to leave a voice mail. Lily might not pick up if she doesn’t recognize the number. Crap. Crapcrapcrapcrap—
“Hello?”
I sit straight. I want to yell and I’m having to whisper. “Lily!”
“Wick! Oh my God, Wick!” There’s a bubble in my sister’s voice. It’s either tears or laughter and I can’t decide which, but I feel the same way. “Are you okay? Is everything all right?”
“I’m fine! I’m fine!” I pause, jerking her words around until they make sense. “Why wouldn’t everything be okay?”
“Because Mom’s been trying to reach you!” Lily holds the mouthpiece so close I can hear each breath. “They keep saying you’re not taking our calls.”
22
“Are you there?” Lily asks. “Wick? Mom feels really bad about what happened. Please don’t shut us out anymore.”
Shut them out? My brain is tingly, fuzzy, and I sound so very far away when I answer, “Lil, I haven’t refused your calls. I was told I wasn’t allowed to call.”
She hiccups. “Mom would never do that!”
I take a deep breath and then another. Either Bren’s lying about the phone situation . . . or Norcut is.
“Mom wants to talk to you, Wick.” Again, the mouthpiece is tucked close. Her breathing’s ragged and shallow as mine now. “I miss you. I miss you so much. It’s not the same without you. We’re not the same family. Please come home.”
Now I am crying.
“I’m scared, Wick.”
I grip the phone tighter. “Why?”
“There are men watching the house. I’ve seen them. Mom—Bren won’t admit it, but I know she sees them too.”
I rub one fist against my breastbone, but the knot in my chest refuses to loosen. “She probably thinks it would scare you worse to know the truth. The house is being watched for your protection. Michael escaped and those men are there to make sure he doesn’t bother you.”
“Why would he?” Lily’s words skew up an octave. “Why would he even stay around here? Isn’t he worried about being caught again?”
“I don’t know.” I waver. My gut’s telling me not to say anything further, but I kept Lily in the dark for so long. Maybe it’s time I trust her? She’s not the girl she used to be. Honestly, neither am I.
I pinch the skin between my eyes and force the words. “They think . . . they think there’s something around here he wants.” I pause, listening to her breathing. It hitched once, but she’s still there.
“You need to come home, Wick. We need to fix this. Promise?”
“I promise.” It escapes before I realize I even said it, before I realize I even thought it. That’s the thing with Lily and me, she asks and I answer. Always. And for several seconds, all I can think about is how Hart and Norcut took this away from us. If they lied about the phone stuff, it’s very possible they lied about the security too, and in my head, Alex’s smile slithers wider and wider.
Explain to me, Alex said, how Hart and Norcut are protecting your family if they have more cameras on the inside of the house than the outside. Something’s going on. I just don’t know what.
I tuck one arm around my middle and stare at the tile under my shoes. “Look, Lily. I don’t have much time. I just need to ask you a couple questions, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Have you noticed any cameras inside the house?”
“Cameras? No. Are we being watched inside too?”
“That’s what I was told. Has Bren mentioned anything? You know how she gets. Is she being weird?”
“Definitely, especially since . . . I think I know when the cameras were installed.” Lily’s tone slows and flattens. “We had exterminators. You know the ones that come every month?”
“Yeah.” Bren can’t stand bugs. She gets the house sprayed every month.
“Well,” Lily continues. “I came home early and they were still working. I surprised one of them. He was in your room. I think he was looking for something.”
There’s a humming in my ears now. A droning. I grope for the wall with one hand, feeling like the floor just tilted. “Did you . . . you didn’t happen to check . . .”
Lily makes a huffing noise. “I moved your stuff the night you left. Don’t worry.”
Easy for her to say. I’m sweating through my clothes now. I was hauled off so quickly I didn’t have ti
me to stash my jump drives. They store all my work: viruses, accounts, client information. I kept them pinned behind my bed’s headboard. Not a genius hiding spot, but I hadn’t exactly anticipated forced rehab.
“And wherever you put my thumb drives,” I say slowly, “they’re safe, right?”
“Of course they’re safe. You’re not the only one who can do this.”
I think she means for it to be funny, but it’s not. Lily has always wanted a normal life, a good life, one that doesn’t involve sneaking around and breaking the law and hiding. It’s what I want for her too. I don’t want my sister to know the things I do. Then again, maybe she always has.
Maybe she’s just been better at hiding them.
“Thanks for looking out for me,” I say.
“Always.” And Lily seems so happy to say it, happier still that I noticed how she looks out for me. On her end, there’s another murmur of voices and we both go quiet as they pass.
Why would anyone want my drives? I mean, there’s enough stuff—viruses, client information, usernames—on them to build a bridge into me, but none of it is as good as what Hart has on me.
The realization makes my breath go shallow. If those are Hart’s people, there’s no way they’re looking for my thumb drives. Looking Glass already has everything—or at least enough to warrant a police investigation.
So what else is there?
Chills spread across my arms and I stand. No, that’s not the right question. It isn’t about what I have. The real question is what else do they think I have? The money? They know Michael took it. Do they think I helped?
“So,” Lily says as soon as it’s quiet on her end. “Do you think your stuff is what Dad’s looking for?”
“No ide—” I stop. My sister’s tone. It’s so . . . hopeful. “What do you think he was looking for?”
There’s nothing but Lily’s breathing now. Too light. Too fast.
I grip the phone tighter. “Lil?”
“I think they were looking for some money.”
“Why?”
“Because I took it.”
Trust Me Page 12
