by C. J. Lyons
She’d planned almost a year for this. Now that she’d found him, nothing was going to stop her. “No. Griffin, we need to stick to the plan.”
“I don’t give a shit about the plan. What if your file upload doesn’t work? What if he’s not there, at the arena, tomorrow? What if something goes wrong and he runs? No. We end this now. Tell me where he is.”
“What are you going to do?” She almost didn’t dare to ask, had a pretty good idea what he would say. He wanted King dead as much as she did. Maybe even more.
His breath rattled through the phone. “I have a gun.”
23
I sit on the restroom floor, my butt going numb. The revolver feels heavy in my pocket, and I pull it out. Its chrome sparks in the overhead fluorescent light. Almost as shiny as my lighter.
I spin the wheel, liking the sound. Then I open it, remove all the bullets. Double-triple-check that the barrel is clear, and dry fire it, aiming at the lock on the door. I’m a good shot with pistols and rifles, shotguns too. My uncle likes guns—something besides fire, beer, and football that firefighters have in common. At least around here.
I pull the trigger again, timing it between breaths, my hand steady. Could I do it? Kill someone?
This isn’t me. I’ve no idea who this is. Not Jesse. Not JohnBoy. Is this who Griffin is? A killer?
Miranda is speaking into my ear. I finally hear her over the roaring in my brain. “Griffin? Talk to me. Are you okay?”
“I’m here.” I spin the wheel again. I can tell by her sudden silence that she can hear it.
“You’re not going to hurt yourself, are you?”
“No. If it was that easy, I’d have done it long ago.”
“Right. You’re right.” Funny, she’s the one who sounds panicked. “Killing yourself isn’t the answer. Neither is that gun. Are you okay to drive?”
“I’m not drunk. Not high.” I don’t know what I am, can’t explain how I feel. What comes after fury, after terror, after you’ve surrendered so much of your soul that you’re empty inside, nothing left?
“I can’t come to you. Will you come to me? Talk to me about this, about what we should do?”
“Are you going to tell me where he is? Who he is?”
“No.” She pauses. “Not until we talk. Face-to-face.” Her voice is a lifeline, crossing time and distance to guide me to safety.
What choice do I have? I grab on to the hope that is Miranda and use her strength to pull myself back onto solid ground.
Finally, I sigh. Rage simmers like a live wire in my veins, but it’s a weary, frustrated rage that I can control.
I climb to my feet and shove the bullets into one pocket, the gun into another. I pull out my notebook and pencil. “Give me your address. I’m on my way.”
• • •
Miranda had just hung up from talking with Griffin when her dad appeared in her open bedroom doorway. She jumped—Mom was at class and Dad was supposed to be at work.
“Dad, what are you doing here? You scared me.” She closed her laptop, trying to look casual.
“Came home early.” He leaned into the room, looking around. “I heard voices.”
She jumped off the bed and gave him a quick hug before heading out into the hall. “I was Skyping with a classmate about our trig assignment. Let me fix you lunch.”
Beyond the hallway she saw a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers on the kitchen counter.
“Why are you home early?” she called back over her shoulder, wishing he’d follow her. King’s picture was still on the main screen of her laptop; she hadn’t had a chance to clear it. Not to mention all the other tabs she had open, tracing her steps to get onto the Telenet site and find his personnel profile.
Nothing illegal—well, maybe, sorta, and definitely not exactly the kind of thing her dad would understand. Especially since after she’d left the hospital the last time, she’d promised her parents that she’d give up her obsession, stalking the Creep, and she’d leave it to the police. The first of so many lies she’d lost count.
“Dad? What do you want for lunch?” She turned to face him, the length of the hall separating them. Exactly the wrong length. Too close to hide, too far to reach out to him, guide him away from her secrets. From her lies.
He stared at her as if sighting down the barrel of his gun. His cop stare—very different from the soft, fuzzy expression she usually coaxed from him. His “don’t even try to bullshit me” stare. As if she was some kind of criminal.
Well, technically she was. Kinda. A few bent privacy and cybersecurity violations. All for a good cause.
At least it had been. But now she had Jesse out there with a gun. She’d grown used to thinking of him as Griffin, her imaginary hero, protector, avenger. But it wasn’t Griffin who’d broken down. It wasn’t Griffin who wanted to end things with King right now; it wasn’t Griffin headed over here.
It was Jesse. Scared, desperate, and armed.
And her dad equally armed.
A buzzing filled her head. Her breath caught as possibilities collided. Her dad was trained to deal with emotionally distraught people—but if Jesse lost control here, in his own home, with his daughter present? Would he react as a police officer or a father?
Memories flooded over her: the thud of fists striking flesh, men hauling her dad off the men who’d attacked her mom, cuffing his hands behind him, treating him like a criminal. His eyes blazing with rage. She stared at the apartment’s front door, turned, and looked at her father still in his uniform. Regret and fear throttled her.
What the hell had she done?
24
I make it back to my truck, not even sure how I get there. I set my notebook with Miranda’s address on the dash. I think I know where I’m going, but I’m not one hundred percent certain. I could call her again, but I feel like I’ve let her down enough for one day already. I can find my way.
Almost immediately I have to pull the truck over when my phone rings. Not Miranda’s. My real phone. The one my mom got me to “keep me safe.” The one no one ever calls.
I grab it from the cup holder between the seats. “Hi, Mom.” She and Janey are in Pittsburgh for the day at the cystic fibrosis clinic. “Everything okay?”
Wrong thing to say, I realize immediately. I glance at the clock, not quite one. I should be in biology, not answering my cell phone. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
“Where the hell are you?” she asks. Her voice isn’t raised, not angry, more like bruised. “Mr. Walker called, said you never made it to school today. Said you were given detention yesterday and ran out of it. He’s talking suspension, Jesse.”
“Suspension? For what?”
“Said you knocked over a janitor. He’s calling it assault.”
“I never—” Wait, actually, I might have. I vaguely remember a big yellow janitor’s bucket standing between me and the door, skidding into it as I ran to save Janey. Had there been a person there as well? “It was an accident, Mom.”
“And today?”
“I—I had to meet a friend. They’re in trouble and need my help.”
“I want you home right now.”
“Yes, ma’am. What about Mr. Walker?”
“I told him you were running out because you were sick with that nasty stomach flu. Covered for you, said I’d forgot to call in this morning to let them know you were home still sick. Said I was too busy getting Janey ready for the trip to Children’s.”
I hated that she lied for me. Hated even more how easily it came to her—I always thought Mom was the one person I could count on to always be honest. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Richey and I discussed it and decided it was best that we handle family problems here in the family.” Richey is what she calls her little brother, my uncle. He’s just as good at manipulating her as he is me. And she’s oblivious, as al
ways.
“I’m on my way home now, but I’m in Altoona.” The noise of a hospital intercom mixes with a monitor’s beeping in the background. “How’s Janey?”
She blows out her breath in a sigh of frustration and worry. “Her pulmonary function tests are low and she’s got a fever. They’re keeping her here for IV antibiotics until they know what’s going on. We’re waiting on the X-rays now.”
“Infection?” The nemesis of CF patients. All that thick gunk that collects in their airways and sinuses attracts germs. “She was fine yesterday.” God, had I missed something, too busy worrying about King? I hit the steering wheel with my fist, squinching my eyes tight. Janey had to be okay; she just had to be.
“If it is, they’ve got it early. We’ll know for sure once they get the tests back.” Her voice is ragged, more than tired. “We won’t be home for a few days and quite frankly, I’m not sure what to do with you, Jesse. I thought I could trust you, but—”
“You can.” How can I prove that to her without telling her the truth? “I’m headed home right now.”
“All right. Call me as soon as you get there—from the landline so I know you’re really home. I’ll see what your uncle wants to do.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I put the truck in gear and start driving.
I call Miranda to let her know I can’t make it, but there’s no answer. I try three more times before I reach my uncle’s house.
Why isn’t she picking up?
• • •
Her dad met Miranda’s gaze, then pivoted, hand dropping to his gun. He entered her room as if it was enemy territory. She pushed back against the wall, holding her breath. He emerged a moment later carrying her laptop. Now open.
He didn’t even glance at her as he passed her and headed to the kitchen table. He set the laptop down, settled into a chair, and waited.
Her mind spun with lies and excuses. How much to tell him? Nothing was her first instinct, remembering what had happened last time she’d told the truth about King. That day in court when she’d testified. It’d felt like ripping out her guts, and what had come of it? Her dad hitting those guys, her mom in tears, Miranda back in the hospital…
She sidled into the kitchen and took the seat across from him, slouching until her chin was barely above the table. Eyes narrowed, she watched as he typed with two fingers, clicking the mouse keys, peering into her innermost life. Her real life.
“What are the flowers for?” she asked, hoping a diversion might buy her time to come up with a plan.
He looked up, startled, as if he’d forgotten the wine and roses. “We finally got an offer on the house back in Pittsburgh. Your mom can take more classes and I’ll be able to quit my job at the arena.”
The job she’d practically shoved him into. The job she needed him to keep—for a few more days at least. Just until the car show tomorrow.
“But you haven’t quit yet, right? You’ll be working there this weekend still?”
His gaze snapped from the computer screen to her. Too sharp, not easily fooled. She’d grown so used to the soft, teddy bear of a dad, the man who’d taken such gentle care of her when she’d come home from the hospital last year, she’d forgotten about the tough, street-smart cop.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” he suggested. “And I’d appreciate it if you told the truth. I think you owe me that, don’t you?”
His glance around the shabby, tiny apartment cemented her guilt. They’d had a nice house in Pittsburgh. A nice life. Before she screwed up.
She squinted at him, resenting that he’d chosen now to finally hold her accountable for her actions. Then she straightened, surprised as he lay his hand over hers.
“The truth,” he urged. “It’s the only way I can help you, Ariel.”
“Miranda,” she corrected automatically.
He winced at the name. She sat up, tall, proud, and met his gaze dead-on. He frowned and gave a small nod. More a jerk of the chin in acknowledgment that he’d heard her than actual acceptance. “Okay. Miranda. Who is this man?”
He turned the laptop so they could both see the screen. King’s face in full color hovered between them. Miranda examined her cuticles, found a ragged edge and picked at it. Every time she looked at King, he appeared so normal, dull, the kind of guy who’d hold the door open for a stranger and you’d look right past him, never see or notice him.
Was that why he did what he did? Not just power…but attention?
She couldn’t meet her father’s eyes. Stared instead across the open bar into the living room at the front door. Jesse would be here soon. Maybe it was for the best, telling her father now, before Jesse arrived. Who knew what kind of state he’d be in? He’d sounded devastated over the phone, even after she’d calmed him down and got him to put the gun away.
“Who is he?” her father repeated, bringing her attention back to him.
“He’s the one,” she whispered, her voice tight and high-pitched like she was a little girl again. She blinked hard and fast. She couldn’t believe she was fighting tears. This was her moment of triumph, what she’d worked so hard for all this year. But here she was falling apart, like she was a stupid little baby.
Her entire body shook. Her father noticed and moved to crouch beside her, hugging her tight.
“It’s him, Daddy,” she said, the words almost drowned out by tears. “I found him.”
25
I take my time driving to my uncle’s house. Focusing on the road helps me calm down. Imaging the look in Mom’s and Janey’s eyes is enough to make me realize I could never kill King. But I still want to hurt him, make him feel half the pain he’s caused me and his other victims.
Even though it’s supposed to be his day off, my uncle is covering the day shift for the chief while he and the state police arson investigators meet with the city commissioners and police. Hopefully he’ll be gone until late, but you never know.
If Miranda’s plan works, how will my uncle react once King is exposed?
It won’t be pretty. He’ll want answers from me, maybe even threaten Mom and Janey. Maybe I should tell the cops that I think he’s the arsonist. Get him locked up and off the streets. But I’ve no idea if I have enough evidence—he might end up set free but even more pissed off.
I hate to even think about Janey being sick, but maybe it’s good they’ll be in Pittsburgh for a few days.
Now all I need to do is upload Miranda’s photos with their hidden files to my computer, encourage King to take the bait, and wait for her to spring the trap.
I pull into my uncle’s drive and jump out of the truck. The gun in my pocket knocks against my hip. Almost forgot about it. I should return it to my uncle’s toolbox but decide it can wait until after all this is over and I know how my uncle reacts to losing his partner in crime.
Mom answers on the second ring when I call her from the house phone like she asked. “Really, Jesse, what am I going to do with you? I hope you have a good explanation for your actions.”
“I told you—”
“You can tell me even more, including giving me your friend’s name and contact info so I can discuss this with his parents as well. As soon as Janey’s taken care of and I get home, you, me, and your uncle, we’re going to discuss this and decide upon a suitable punishment. Do you understand me?”
Even though she can’t see me, I look down at my boots. I feel awful distracting her from Janey. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I just got off with Richey. He was called out to a fire, but he wants to talk with you tonight. In the meantime, you’re grounded. No phone, no TV, no computer. You do your homework, clean your room, and think about your actions. I’ll call and check on you when I can.” She pauses but I don’t know what to say. To my surprise, she continues, “I love you.”
And she’s gone. I hang up the phone, can’t remember the last time I wa
s home alone for longer than the twenty minutes between my school and Janey’s bus—even then my uncle would be here most days. The house doesn’t feel empty, though. Instead, it feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting to see what I’m going to do next.
Easy. I’m going to set the trap for King. Last time I ever have to talk to him again.
I don’t even bother taking my jacket off as I rush to my room. The computer is still shut, the way my uncle left it last night. I open it up.
Nothing. The screen is blank. But the power button is lit. Puzzled, I shut it all the way off, make sure it’s plugged in, and reboot it. It whirls and whirls but nothing happens.
King’s phone rings. I grab it from where I keep it stashed out of sight on its charger below the desk. The screen is filled with missed messages and calls, too many to count. Yesterday I would have marveled at how he knew I was home, but now, thanks to Miranda, I know it’s his spyware using the phone’s microphone and camera to monitor me.
The phone rings again, vibrating in my palm. I gather my breath, tap the recording pen so it’s on, and answer, putting the call on speaker.
“What the hell you playing at?” King’s voice thunders. “You don’t shut me out, not ever. Do you understand me?”
“You said I had the weekend off to think about what you said, about looking for a kid for you to sell to your clients.”
“Giving you time to think doesn’t mean you’re off the clock. I had to cancel two clients because you weren’t answering your phone. Do you have any idea what that cost me?”
Actually I don’t. But this is a good time to document it. “No. How much?”
He goes silent, surprised by my answer. So not JohnBoy. Not Jesse, either. It’s like I’m channeling an alternative personality. Griffin.
“What did you do to my computer?” I ask when he doesn’t answer my question. “I can’t perform for your clients without it.”
