Find Me

by Romily Bernard

  “Don’t push it, Wick. I’m actually thinking about doing just that.”

  “Then why haven’t you?”

  “Because . . . I don’t think you’d do this without a really good reason.” Lauren turns away, retreats to my bed, and starts unpacking more new clothes Bren bought me. “So what do you have to do?”

  “Some hacking. They have a way to scam people into making donations by appearing to be a charity for tornado victims.” I plug in my computer, and while I’m stuck waiting for it, I swivel my chair side to side. Power-ups take longer with my computer than they would with most. I have a mess of firewall hardware, an entire platform of anti-spyware protection, and I still unplug the computer to prevent anyone from powering it up remotely. It’s the only way to fully sever my line to the outside. I can’t get out, but no one else can get in either. “Joe and my dad need me for the credit cards.”

  “I just . . . I just don’t like you doing this. I mean, when are you going to quit?”

  “Do you have any idea what will happen if I do?” She doesn’t have an answer, and because I don’t either, I look away. I turn to my computer and pull up my email. Wire transfer. Wire confirmation. A follow-up email from a past customer. This is what my life used to be.

  “Your dad can’t touch you, Wick. You’re not part of that world anymore.”

  “I’m not?” The argument is so familiar it pisses me off. These are the same lies I told Lily. I might not be part of my old world anymore, but I’m sure as hell not part of this new one. “Joe knows where we are. He knows how to reach us. I can’t risk pissing him off. Think about what he could do to us.”

  “You mean what he’d do to Lily.”

  “I mean us. Bren and Todd and you,” I add. “If Joe knows about you, my dad knows.”

  Lauren nods like she gets it, but I can see in her clouded eyes and pressed-thinned mouth that she doesn’t. She’s worried about the hacking, not what the hacking protects. I could try to explain it, but the words won’t come. They’re lodged in my gut.

  I click my link to Facebook and plug in Tessa’s log-in. The page takes only a heartbeat to load, and when it does, there must be twenty messages under mine, but only one makes me cringe:

  When I find you, you’ll bleed for that.

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  .....................................................................

  His promises scare me.

  He always gets what he wants.

  —Page 34 of Tessa Waye’s diary

  When I find you, you’ll bleed for that.

  Well, hello, Michael Starling. I stare at the screen, wavering between excited and spooked. There are no other comments from Michael, but there are plenty from Tessa’s other friends. Matthew Bradford called us both “freaks.” Holly Davis says, “Whoever hacked Tessa’s page will go to hell for this stuff.” There’s more, of course. Everyone knows Tessa’s account has been compromised, but they’re assuming it’s been hacked by a nasty classmate. This could work to my advantage . . . as long as the Wayes or the police don’t report the page as being compromised.

  “Are you the one who posted on Tessa’s wall? That comment about knowing who killed me?”

  I look up, catch Lauren staring at me from across the room.

  “Is that what you wanted to talk about?” I ask.

  “I don’t understand why you did it. When I said you had to do something—”

  “I did. I tracked down who sent me Tessa’s diary.”

  Lauren’s face creases in confusion. “What?”

  “It was Tessa’s little sister, Tally. She found the diary, read it, and contacted me. Tessa was involved with some guy—I don’t know who, but I think he was older—and when she tried to break it off . . . it turned violent.”

  Lauren puts one hand on my bed to steady herself, but her knees keep pressing toward the floor.

  “It gets worse. Tessa wrote about the guy in her diary, and even though she never used his name, she did name someone else he wanted, his next target—”

  I know this part so well it should be easy. Lily’s name is living under my tongue, but I end up having to rip it out of myself.

  “It’s . . . Lily, Lauren. He named Lily. She’s next.” I tilt my computer screen in Lauren’s direction. She hesitates, then comes to join me. “I’ve been trying to run down Tessa’s inner circle—figure out who he might be—and when I looked through her Facebook friends, everyone seemed legit.

  “Except for this guy.” I point at Michael Starling’s avatar. “He has no other friends but Tessa. It’s a fake profile picture, a fake name. I think he could be our guy.”

  “He sounds way pissed, Wick. Could he really find you?”

  “No, I logged in as Tessa. There’s no way he could know who I am.”

  Then why are goose bumps still climbing up my arms?

  “But what if someone tells the police? Could it get tracked back to you?”

  “No, I used a secure IP address. Worst case, they’re going to think it’s cyberbullying and delete the account.”

  We both spend another minute rereading the message, and for the first time, I notice the time stamp. It’s barely twenty minutes after I posted my message. Good. I can use that. Hacking is all about knowing your code and programs, but it’s also about knowing your prey. Marks with high emotions are often the easiest to hack. They can make themselves vulnerable. The right email, the right phone call, the right touch can push them in the direction you want.

  But how do I keep pushing him?

  “I guess I just . . . I just don’t get why you threw it up there like that.” Lauren pulls her thumbnail from her mouth and gestures at the screen with a half-chewed finger. ‘I know who killed me.’ It’s kind of, I don’t know, inflammatory. It isn’t just Tessa’s attacker who’s going to get upset. What about her mom?”

  I think of Mrs. Waye’s cracked smile and wince . . . then I think of Mr. Waye’s fists, and I cringe. “It’ll be horrible, but she’ll think it’s some cruel kid showing off. Lauren, if I make him angry, he’ll be easier to find.”

  “Or you could go to the police. What if you took all this to them?”

  “One of the detectives—his name’s Carson—might be involved. He kept waiting outside their house. Tally’s suspicious.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yeah . . . Carson’s shown up here too. I think he’s dirty. He might even have something to do with it.”

  Lauren sits down hard on my floor, watches me with a kind of horrified wonder.

  “Even if I did give them the diary, it wouldn’t help. It doesn’t name the rapist. It will focus them in the wrong direction, and they’ll be chasing their tails. Trust me, I know this stuff. I’m usually the one they’re chasing.” I run both hands through my hair, rubbing my scalp until I’m sure I look like I stuck my tongue in a toaster.

  I look at Lauren. “Do you know how many times my mom called the cops about my dad? A bunch. Ten times? Twelve? Even after she slapped him with a restraining order, he still didn’t stop. He’d beat the hell out of us, steal her paycheck, and disappear again. There’s some evil that can’t be caught by playing by the rules.”

  I expect to see denial in Lauren’s expression, but her chin lifts. “Yeah, the police play by the rules, and this guy won’t.”

  “Exactly. If Lily’s going to be saved, it’s up to me.”

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  I love the way he looks at me.

  It’s like he’s starving, and I’m food.

  —Page 10 of Tessa Waye’s diary

  I’m awake long after Lauren leaves. When I find you is branding everything I see. I have to catch up, but how? The IP address he used is hidden. I followed the proxy server connection from New York to London to a tiny town in the Virgin Islands an
d gave up. He’s using a software program to bounce his connection, routing it through different servers around the world. So annoying when noobs do this. Makes them think they’re better than they are. Eventually, he will screw up, and I’ll have him.

  But how long until that happens? I roll over, bury my head under the pillow. Michael Starling is my guy—only someone who’s guilty would use that much protection to keep from being found—but it brings me no closer to the man behind the name.

  I toss the pillow aside and reach for a pen. I’ll start with what I know.

  He likes young girls.

  He has access.

  Tessa mentioned he was tall once. She said he was hot probably twenty times.

  Attractive.

  I look down at my list. Great. Tessa’s rapist could be in a boy band. I’m not doing this right. I flip the paper and start again. Possible suspects.

  A friend.

  Technically, it works. It could explain some of what I know: access, liking young girls, attractive, but it doesn’t explain everything I know: He seems older, they were both hiding the relationship, he had a great deal to lose.

  A teacher.

  That could work too, and it seems more likely than some random guy from our school . . . but if it’s a teacher, then which teacher? If I assume Tessa’s relationship started about a year ago when her Facebook postings started to decrease, then that leaves the field pretty open.

  A relative.

  Same problem as the teacher angle. Could be a possibility, but how do I narrow down the relatives?

  4.…..

  Hmmm. I don’t have a Number 4.

  Unless I do. What if I consider Tessa’s life outside of school? What if my Number 4 is someone her family knew?

  If I think about that . . . What if it’s Todd?

  The thought makes me go very, very still. I mean . . . it’s logical. He had the opportunity. He had the contact, the trust.

  But it’s also Todd. The guy who is everybody’s hero. The one who almost cried the other night. He’s a counselor for Christ’s sake. And, while I know—I know—that doesn’t excuse him, I can’t stop thinking of all the ways it won’t work. He’s too kind. He’s too squeaky clean. He’s too . . . computer dumb.I tap my pen against the page. I need more clues. I grab the diary off my nightstand; flip it open, and go slowly through the first twenty pages.

  There it is. Page twenty-two. Tessa wrote how her mom loves him, but he only wants Tessa. It’s definitely worth asking Tally about.

  And as long as I’m trying this from a different angle, what if I looked at people Tessa was afraid of?

  Her dad.

  She was definitely afraid of him—even Todd knew. And of course, Mr. Waye would have access. Now that I think about it, Tessa never names her father in the diary either . . . even though she complains that her mom won’t—or can’t—stand up for them.

  Maybe Tessa was afraid to name her abuser . . . because he’s her dad.

  Or maybe I’m thinking horrible thoughts about Mr. Waye because he forbade Tessa from being friends with me.

  I sit back. It’s a stretch to think her dad would be involved, but he definitely belongs on the People Tessa Was Afraid Of list.

  I chew on the end of my pen and read through the list again. Whoever this guy is, he can cover his tracks. He knows how to hide his location. IP blocking software doesn’t make him a genius, but it does make him smarter than the average user. He would also have to have access to Tessa and be able to get her to trust him. If not a relative or a teacher . . .

  What about a cop?

  Unease squeezes my chest. What if she was afraid of Carson?

  Think about the picture where he was staring at her and how Tally said he sat in front of their house. Cops always seem so trustworthy, but Carson’s already proven he’s bold enough for a break-in. He tried our locks. He laughed as if our attempts at protection amused him. Because he figured he would eventually catch Lily? That was the night Tessa died. What if he decided it was also the night he would attack my sister?

  What if I’ve been watching too much Criminal Minds?

  I crumple up my list; toss it in my book bag so I can throw it away at school and not worry about Bren accidentally discovering it in the trash. I’m getting paranoid.

  But what if I should be?

  I flip off the lights and rub my eyes until colors starburst behind the lids. It’s two in the morning now. I’m going to be a zombie at school tomorrow and I should just go to bed, but it’s so not going to happen. My body is exhausted, but my brain is on overdrive.

  Headlights slide past my window, and even though they’ve become as familiar as my own code, my nerves still shiver.

  Two in the morning. Carson’s right on time.

  I pull my desk chair closer to the window, expecting to see Carson wheel into his usual spot, but the car doesn’t stop. It drives past our house and rounds the corner. The street is empty . . . or is it?

  Something moves in the shadows, and as I watch, a man emerges from the neighbor’s tree line, steps across the deserted street, and looks up at our house.

  It isn’t Carson.

  It’s Jim Waye.

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  HarperCollins Publishers

  .....................................................................

  My friends would say they know who I am, but

  really they just know who I wish I could be.

  —Page 41 of Tessa Waye’s diary

  All hell breaks loose at school. The next morning, Jenna Maxwell is crying. Again. Counselors are circulating. Again. And all the students have to attend a mandatory cyberbullying workshop in the auditorium tomorrow.

  “You might have had a point about the whole ‘inflammatory’ Facebook comment.”

  “You think?” Lauren is waiting for me after fourth period, arms tight across her chest. “If you wanted to draw attention to all this, you got it, Wick.”

  “That wasn’t the point.”

  “I know.” Briefly, Lauren closes her eyes, and when they reopen, they’re hooded. “I know that wasn’t what you were doing, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. If someone traces it to you, you’re screwed. I’m worried you’re walking around with a target on your back.”

  That makes two of us. Right now, I feel like my life has gone totally surreal. Everywhere you turn, people are talking about Tessa, her Facebook page, and the posts. Even though they don’t know who’s behind it, it still scares me.

  In some ways, I’m used to being gossiped about. Everyone knows how my dad beat my mom and how my mom jumped because she couldn’t take it, but this is the closest anyone has ever gotten to me—the real me—and I don’t like it.

  “You look exhausted,” Lauren says.

  “Yeah. I was up most of the night. We had another visitor, and even after he left, I still couldn’t sleep.”

  “That cop again?”

  “Nope. Jim Waye.”

  Lauren blinks. “What? Why?”

  “Hell if I know.” I open my English notebook and check to make sure my homework is tucked inside. “He just stood across the street and stared up at our house.”

  “Okay, that’s creepy.”

  “No doubt. The thing is . . . I don’t understand why he would do it. I mean, he hates Todd, since Todd sicced the police on him. He’s not a big fan of mine—”

  “Doesn’t matter. No one normal hangs around outside someone’s house in the middle of the night. The guy is seriously strange. You know he’s still showing up to cheerleading practice?”

  I stare at Lauren.

  “Yeah. Exactly. I mean, he used to watch our practices almost every day after school, and that was weird enough, but now that Tessa’s, you know, gone, he’s still showing up.” Lauren fidgets with the strap of her book bag, attention trained on the counselors circulating at the other end of the hallway.

  “Look, I gotta go,” she says. “If I’m late for history one mo
re time, Mrs. Gavin’s going to give me detention, and my mom will flip. Try to be good, okay?”

  “Gee, Bren, you look awfully young today.”

  Lauren stalks down the hallway, middle finger raised, and a group of freshman girls scatter in four different directions to get away from her.

  Norcut might have a point about the anger management issues. I turn to my locker, ready to get going, but I don’t move fast enough, and Jenna Maxwell, her boyfriend, and her flying monkeys cruise past, heading for their own lockers.

  Usually, Jenna’s mere presence makes me remember I need to do something, anything really, that’s far away from her. In fact, it’s so instinctual my feet are already moving, but I can’t seem to stop . . . staring.

  This was Tessa’s best friend—and yeah, that’s obvious—but knowing what I know now, it feels different. This is the girl who should’ve known what happened, who should be tracking down her best friend’s attacker, and instead, Tessa’s stuck with me.

  I pretend to trade books again and watch the girls from the corner of my eye. I tell myself it’s reconnaissance. After all, this was Tessa’s world, and that’s something I’m trying to piece back together to discover where it all went wrong.

  Except it kind of just shows me where I’ve gone wrong. It’s funny the way they all touch one another, the natural way they hug. Makes them seem like a different species entirely—or maybe it’s just that I am. Jenna’s friends have none of my hesitancy or awkwardness. They’re stroking her arms and trying to soothe her tears in a way that makes me pause. I might be even a little . . . envious? Tessa felt so alone, but how could you ever be alone in the middle of all these friends? How could you feel alone when you’re so damn perfect? When your friends look after you so well?

  “I just don’t understand why she did it.” Jenna smacks her locker shut with a flattened palm, and her friends draw away in surprise. Anger. It’s even more familiar to me thanJenna’s sneer.

  She doesn’t understand, and she’s furious. I get that. Sometimes I hate my mom for doing it too. Sometimes I understand. Jenna will feel the same way about Tessa, and I want to tell her it will get better. I want to—