Trust Me

by Romily Bernard

  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.”

  38

  Carson’s crammed into the space, knees tucked under his cheek, left arm lying in a horrible angle at his side. It’s useless.

  No. Not entirely useless.

  Tap . . . tap . . . scraaaatttccchhhh.

  Carson’s patting and then dragging the top of his class ring against an exposed pipe. That’s what we were hearing.

  “We need to call nine-one-one,” I whisper, and yet I’m not moving. Can’t.

  “Concerned for me now?” That horrible red smile widens, but each word is labored.

  “Griff, please!” I can’t look away and Carson chuckles like he knows.

  “You feel guilty for what you did to me yet?” he asks.

  I swallow. “You mean planting the explosives? You had it coming.”

  “Does that make it right?” Carson inhales. The breath rattles and I cringe. “You’re not the one who got branded.”

  “Wasn’t I?”

  Carson doesn’t answer, but there’s another rattle deep in his chest. It’s terrible and horrifying and more than enough to get me going. I rock back on my heels, looking for Griff. We have to call the police. We have to call an ambulance—Carson’s fingers seize my wrist, haul me closer.

  That’s when I notice his jacket. It’s the same leather jacket that guy from the SUV wore. Carson was at the car accident. Carson tried to kidnap me.

  I gape. “It was you. Why?”

  “Leverage. You know he’s coming for you, don’t you?” The detective smells of sweat and urine and blood, and when he closes his mouth to swallow, he gags. Carson’s grip slackens. His eyes go flat, vacant.

  “We need to call an ambulance,” I manage and I can barely squeeze the words past the roaring in my head. “We need help.”

  “We need to get out of here.” Griff grabs my arm, bandages flexing. “An ambulance can’t fix dead. Let’s go!”

  “We can’t leave him like this!”

  Griff tenses, swings his head to the left. “Did you hear that?”

  He tugs at me again and I struggle to my feet. “I don’t—”

  I do. A car door just slammed. I suck in a breath as Griff disappears down the hallway again, sticking close to the wall.

  Another slam. It’s not from one of the neighboring houses though. It’s closer. Like right out front.

  My heart leaps behind my teeth as Griff spins, charges toward me. He hooks one arm around my waist and hauls me to him. “Run. It’s Hart. He’s found us.”

  Griff shoves through the back door and I match him stride for stride. We dash across the yard and we’re just past the tree line when I hear the first shout.

  “Go!” Griff drops back a stride and pushes me forward. Two more shouts behind us. We tear through someone’s yard and I hit their fence at a dead run, scramble over the top, and land with my legs pumping.

  Another shout.

  And a crash.

  Are they coming after us? I glance behind me and nearly trip. No good. Keep going. I hurl myself across the next fence, my stomach scraping painfully across the chain link top.

  My sneakers kick dirt into the air, but my lungs are already burning. I can barely breathe. I move my feet faster. I am not getting caught because I spent too many hours behind those damn computers instead of in gym class.

  Griff grabs my arm and yanks me sideways, almost off my feet.

  “But—” I splutter. The car is that way. Escape is that way.

  Griff hauls me between two trailers, curves one hand against the top of my head, protecting me as we crawl underneath someone’s porch, scramble until we reach the trailer’s metal skirting. Griff leans against the trailer and tugs me closer and closer until I’m pinned between his knees, my shoulders against his chest. He braces one forearm along my collarbone, I press my head against his cheek, and in the shadows, we wait.

  But we don’t have to wait long.

  Two men tear through the yard. They’re fast black blurs against the humid green. Watching them through the spaces in the porch steps makes the whole thing feel like a movie.

  Or a nightmare.

  “We can’t stay here,” I whisper. I’m breathing through my mouth because everything around us smells like damp dirt. It’s like I tunneled inside a grave.

  Griff’s chin brushes against my hair in a nod. We can’t look at each other. We can’t take our eyes off the yard.

  One of the men whips back through, stops, looks around. It’s the town car driver—the second one, the one who showed up after Hart and I were attacked. He spends a moment watching the woods he just came from. Then he studies the yard.

  Then he notices the trailers.

  “Shit,” Griff breathes. “Come here.”

  He leans to one side, taking me with him. Our hips and shoulders connect with the ground, and for a second, I freeze. He’s taking us under the trailer, shimmying us through a small space in the trailer’s skirting. We push past spiderwebs, going deeper into the dark. The trailer’s floor is inches above my head and something crunches under my hand. I whimper.

  “You can do this,” Griff whispers. The words lift sticky hair from my neck, make me shiver even though it’s stupid hot under here. There’s a single patch of sunlight on the dirt and I focus on it as Griff repeats, “You can do this. You can d
o this. You can—”

  The scuffle is soft, but it keeps getting closer. Footsteps. He’s coming for a closer look.

  Scuffle. Scuffle.

  Stop.

  39

  He’s standing by the porch and I hold hold hold my breath. Is he bending down? Is he looking underneath? Does he see the hole we crawled into?

  He does. A shadow slides into that square of late afternoon light and I grind my teeth together to keep myself from breathing. I desperately need to, but I don’t dare. I don’t trust myself not to gasp.

  We wait . . . wait . . . He moves away and my brain goes fuzzy.

  I turn my head toward Griff, rest my cheek against his shoulder, and feel everything in me come down one notch and then another. I close my eyes and we stay put, listening. The SD micro card’s case is digging into my side and I let it, hoping the discomfort will give me something else to concentrate on beyond the fact that Hart is hunting me.

  And Carson is involved.

  And dead.

  We give it twenty minutes before crawling toward the opening again. Griff goes first, waiting just beyond the line of sunshine as he listens. Finally, he looks at me. “Ready to go?”

  “God, yes.”

  We crawl out from the trailer and then scoot to the opening underneath the porch. Griff struggles to his feet, then offers me his forearm, drags me upright. I squint in the sudden sunlight and check my pockets again. The case is still there.

  “That sucked,” I say and Griff laughs. He shakes dirt from his clothes, dashes one forearm over his head before turning to me. I’ve banged off most of the spiderwebs, but Griff keeps checking and checking me like he’s convinced I missed something.

  “I’m okay,” I tell him. “I’m okay.”

  Griff finally looks at me. “I’m not.”

  He touches his fingertips to my stomach and I look down. My T-shirt’s torn and bloody. I examine the skin underneath, discovering two long, thin scrapes. I must’ve cut myself on that chain link fence.

  Griff curves one bandaged hand against my cheek, and for an instant, I see Alex in him. It’s in the way he’s tired, beaten-down. I know it because I feel it too.

  “What are we going to do?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Griff looks at me then looks away. He’s waiting for me to say something and I have nothing. Well, that’s not entirely true. I have pocketfuls of apologies, an entire lungful of excuses, a handful of enough bravery to say, “I don’t have that answer, but I do know this: If every moment is a potential Big Moment, then this one’s mine. I want you.”

  Griff stares at me in a way that should make me back down and I don’t. I’ve backed down too much to do it anymore. “I wanted you even when I couldn’t say the words, Griff—especially when I couldn’t say the words because they were too big and I didn’t know how. I want you.”

  I swallow and taste tears. Now would be a really great time for him to say something. Anything.

  And he’s still staring at me.

  Until he jerks, blinks. “I want you too,” Griff says. “For what you are and what you will be.”

  I stuff down a hysterical laugh—or was it a sob? Either way, my arms are around his neck and his arms are around my waist, and when Griff’s mouth meets mine, I know there’s no getting over this and I’m glad, grateful, because this is the boy who saw me when no one saw me, who knew I had good in me when I refused to believe it.

  His hands frame my face, and panting, we break apart. “Text Bren, okay?” he whispers.

  I nod, already reaching for my phone.

  “Good. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Griff tangles his bandaged fingers in mine and we dart between the trailers, casting one quick glance down the street before bolting for the abandoned field. The setting sun has turned the weeds to gold and we’re running hard, but my brain’s going even faster. With this information, I could leverage myself against Looking Glass. Norcut and Hart could take me down, but I could take them too. They wouldn’t dare risk it. All I have to do now is return the money—or whatever’s left of it—and we can call it even.

  I’ll make them call it even.

  Satisfaction makes me run faster. We explode from the grass, sneakers hitting the pavement, just in time to see Bren’s car approaching us. It’s coming fast.

  Is something wrong?

  I squint. The shape . . . the shape is wrong. That’s not Bren’s car.

  Click.

  I go cold and Griff’s hand tightens. There’s only one sound in the world like that: a gun. Slowly, we both turn, watch a figure push up from the ground and the thickening shadows.

  “Do not move,” it says. Orange sunlight slants through the trees, hitting his shoulders . . . his face . . . his pistol.

  “You drove me to Looking Glass,” I say.

  “Turn around,” he says.

  We do. A black BMW purrs toward us and I have to struggle not to sink to my knees. Every last bit of my energy is gone. That’s not a town car, but it’s close enough. Looking Glass always liked their shiny, black vehicles.

  The car pulls to a stop a few feet from me and I watch the door open. The driver stands up, walks toward us.

  Dark suit. Dark sunglasses.

  He pulls them down with a single finger and an animal howl fights into my mouth. It’s not Hart.

  It’s Michael.

  40

  “Hello, daughter.”

  I take a step back and cold metal presses against my skull.

  “Don’t even think about it,” the guy says, nudging me forward again.

  “This feels familiar.” Michael taps his knuckles against the Beemer’s hood. “How’re you doing, Griffin?”

  Griff doesn’t answer and Michael walks around the car, stops so close I can smell the sweetness of his aftershave. “You two look awfully close for someone who’s taken up with a doctor’s son.”

  “It’s not like that,” I say.

  “Pity.”

  “Let him go.”

  Michael faces me. “Gladly. I’m not here for him anyway.”

  Chills ripple through me. “What do you want?”

  “You, but I admit he is a problem.” Michael’s attention drags to Griff and lingers. “Earlier, it was useful having him with you, made texting you so much easier, but now . . . ?”

  “You have Carson’s cell?” I ask.

  “I’m presuming you found my gift, yes?”

  I don’t answer, but Michael nods like I did. “Good,” he says. “I went to a bit of trouble to kill him, but I won’t say I didn’t enjoy it. I’m also presuming you found that micro card. Hold on to it. We’re going to need it.”

  “You need to leave.” Griff eases closer to me, and Michael’s guy switches the gun from my head to Griff’s temple. “We’re about to have a ton of witnesses.”

  “‘A ton’?” Michael laughs. “Or one extremely stressed lady? Your Bren is still miles away. Got caught on her way here and is getting a ticket for failure to maintain lane and speeding.”

  I swallow. “From the same officer who got you out of jail?”

  “No, but nice guess. I use a variety of contacts. It’s important to give back to the community, you know?”

  Michael glances at me and I flinch, biting down on my tongue.

  “But it’s not like we have time to mess around,” he continues. “We’re leaving, Wicket. Get in the car.”

  Griff stiffens. “Wick.”

  “No,” I say.

  Michael’s smile slings wider and he nods to his guy. The man steps closer to Griff and we both tense. “This is how it’s going to go,” Michael says. “In return for good behavior, Wick, I’m going to let Martin here knock your boyfriend out. He’ll go down. You’ll come with me, and in a few hours, he’ll wake up with a hell of a headache.”

  And we’ll be God knows how far away. I look at Griff. We’ll be long gone, but he’ll live.

  The relief is a rus
h until I realize Michael will also have leverage on me. Forever.

  Our eyes meet and he smiles like he knows what I’m thinking.

  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” I ask Michael at last.

  Griff’s eyes go wide. “I’m not leaving you alone with him!”

  Michael laughs. “You don’t know that I’m telling the truth, but I am. Martin”—Michael gestures to his gunman—“could’ve killed him when you two came out of the field, but he didn’t because I told him not to. Consider it a show of good faith. I know how you feel about the boy and I’m going to let him live.”

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “Your cooperation.” Michael bends down, swipes a long piece of grass from the ground, and begins to shred it. “We have things to discuss.”

  My head goes light, woozy. I don’t want to discuss anything with him.

  “Let him,” Griff whispers and I whip toward him, convinced I couldn’t have heard right. Michael and Martin both stiffen, straining to hear Griff’s words. “Let him hit me,” he repeats under his breath. “Wherever he takes you . . . I will find you.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

  Griff shakes his head. “I trust you.”

  My breath hitches, and for a very long moment, all I can do is stare at him. “I love you,” I whisper and the words should feel like a bomb because I withheld them for so long, but they’re suddenly easy to say, like they belonged to him all along.

  “I love you too.” Griff’s words are a confession and a promise. Now I just have to be brave enough to see this through. I swallow, swallow again. I’m struggling to breathe, but I force myself to look at Michael. I nod.

  “Good,” he says. “Do it farther in, Martin. I want Bren to have trouble finding him.”