But if that’s true and if Mrs. Waye discovered the truth, why didn’t she report him? Why didn’t she turn him in to the police?
Because she was afraid of him. Mrs. Waye is afraid of her husband, just like my mom was afraid of my dad. Sometimes it’s safer to run.
And who knows, maybe they are safe in Charleston. The thought makes me smile as I walk down the Wayes’ driveway.
Until I think: Tally may be safe, but Lily’s not.
Twenty minutes later, I turn onto our street and stop. There’s a cop car parked farther down from me. Carson.
For once, he’s not staking us out. He’s standing on our front porch, and Bren’s about to let him inside.
Shit. I look at my phone. It’s after seven thirty,, just over four hours since the picture of Lily was originally posted. Carson must’ve traced the image to my sister . . . or me.
Anxiety makes the low-level thumping in my right temple jump up another notch. Jesus. Of all the times to get a migraine.
Bren shuts the door firmly behind Carson, and after several moments of waiting, it doesn’t look like the detective’s returning to his car anytime soon. I walk down the street with one eye on the house and one eye on Carson’s sedan. My first instinct is to let the air out of his tires, but then . . . then something else occurs to me: Carson can’t be a suspect.
Mrs. Waye would have gone to a man she trusted and loved and told him everything—especially since that man was a cop—but she didn’t. She ran.
I think about the picture of the Wayes on Tessa’s Facebook page. What if Carson somehow knew something was wrong with Tessa? What if he wasn’t looking at her with jealousy, but with suspicion and concern?
What if Carson and I are actually on the same team?
There might be a way to find out.
I walk around the car, and unsurprisingly, all the doors are locked. But in concession to the heat, Carson has cracked the windows. The rear passenger window is open a bit more than the others. Not enough to fit a hand or an arm . . . but it is big enough to slide in a diary.
I watch the house, look for any movement in the windows. Nothing.
Before, I didn’t think the diary would help the police. It’s just too vague. But maybe—maybe—it would lead to a closer examination of Mr. Waye.
I take the diary from my messenger bag, turning to page twenty-two and carefully folding down the corner so he’ll see the sentence about how Tessa’s mom loved her daughter’s abuser. It’s not much, but it’s the best I have at the moment.
I wipe the book with the front of my tee. Paranoid? Yes, absolutely. Then I flick it onto the backseat floorboard and step away.
I run for Lauren’s.
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We don’t have guns. My mom keeps the knives
locked up . . . . There has to be another way.
—Page 51 of Tessa Waye’s diary
Lauren’s house looks like something you’d see in a grocery store magazine. I guess for them it’s normal, but I still find it hard to believe real people live like this. All the surfaces are so clean. All the fabrics are so touchable. The colors Mrs. Cross used are brilliant and soft all at the same time. It kind of invites you to just . . . relax.
But it makes me stiff as hell.
People like Bren and Todd would be comfortable here, but of course, they would be. This is their world, not ours.
I guess I should say it’s not mine, because Lily is doing just fine. Actually, she’s doing better than fine.
So what’s my deal?
I probably don’t want to know. I let myself in through the side door that leads to the Crosses’ kitchen. There must be twenty people crowded around, but I don’t make it half a dozen steps before running into Jenna Maxwell. Her pale hair is scraped into a tight ponytail, and she’s sporting a candy-colored dress that looks just like one Bren brought home for me last week.
“Why are you here?” she snaps.
I try to think of a good answer, but I don’t make it very far. Jenna has finely ground glitter smeared across her face and shoulders, and I can’t really stop staring. She kind of . . . twinkles. I’m sure Jenna thinks it’s fabulous.
But I think she looks like she was molested by a fairy.
“What?” Jenna demands. “Jealous?”
“Uh . . .” There’s really no good answer here. If I say no, I’m not jealous because I’ve seen the same look on strippers, then she’ll pound me to a pulp. If I say yes, I’m jealous, she’ll probably still pound me to a pulp.
“‘Uh,’” Jenna mimics. She looks me up and down, and judging by her sneer, I’ve been found way lacking. No surprise there.
So why does it still make me feel like shit?
Jenna puts both hands on her hips. “What the hell do you know anyway, Wicket? You think just because you’re friends with Lauren that makes you something special?”
“Piss off, Jenna.” Griff—wiry, hard, gets-into-unmarked-police-cars Griff—slides his arm around my shoulders, and the veins in Jenna’s neck pop up like rope. “You’re drunk.”
“Maybe I am.” Jenna looks me over once more. “So what’s your excuse, Griff?”
I want to leave, but I can’t move. Griff’s arm has tightened. He’s pinned me, and I don’t want to hear any of this, I really don’t. Because I know what’s coming next. He’ll say he’s slumming it. He’ll blow me off.
And I don’t want to hear it.
Jenna’s face screws up. “Well?”
Griff’s arm loops me closer. His fingers slide up my neck, touching the edge of my hair. Everyone’s looking, and he . . . laughs at her.
“You’re an idiot, Jenna.” Griff pulls me to his side, and we walk straight past her like she doesn’t even exist.
And maybe, for a minute, she doesn’t. Because all I can feel is Griff, sharp-edged and amused, against me, and all I can think about is how he stood up for me and how I feel about being rescued by someone I’m not sure I trust anymore.
There will be payback for embarrassing Jenna—probably another Dumpster dive in my future—but right now, I don’t care. I’m with Griff and I should be suspicious of him, I should be demanding answers, but it feels so . . . good to be under his arm and tucked into his side.
Except as soon as I glance around, I realize how many people are staring.
Whispering.
It could be because Griff made Jenna look like an epic fool, but the way their eyes inch over me, I know it’s something else.
“Lily,” one girl mouths to another, and my skin goes cold.
Looking around, I watch my sister’s name pass in whispers. Some people back away from us, but others start to come closer, and I realize they know. They saw the Facebook page or they heard about it.
And all at once, my smile—the one I didn’t even know I had—evaporates. I’m back in my life. My real life.
“What IP address did you tell Lauren about?” I whisper.
Griff nods at some guys from the baseball team, weaving us through the party like we have all the time in the world. “The only one that matters—the one Michael Starling used to do the upload.”
“Tell me—”
“Not yet, Wicked. Not here.” Griff says hey to a few more people, but thankfully, we don’t stop. His friends’ gazes cling to me.
Because they saw Lily’s picture? Or because he’s holding my hand?
We push our way toward the backyard, where there’s a couple making out in the pool and a game of volleyball going on. Good. No one seems to notice or care about us.
Griff tugs me toward a set of teak chaise lounges, where you can overlook the narrow alley separating the Crosses’ backyard from the road.
Detective Carson is parked at the curb.
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I have the hardest time getting up in the morning.
It’s not like the blankets weigh that much, but it
feels like I’ve been buried.
—Page 3 of Tessa Waye’s diary
“He’s here for you.”
I blink, force myself to turn around and face Griff, even though it makes the hair on my neck stand up. I hate having Carson behind me. “Oh yeah? How do you know he’s not here for you, Griffin? You’re the one who jumped into the car with him.”
“You saw that, huh?” Griff’s lips curl up in a phony smile. It makes me nervous. Faking it is never a good sign. I want to keep my attention trained on Carson, but now . . . now I’m afraid to have Griff at my back.
“And I thought I was supposed to be the stalker, Wicked.”
“You’re avoiding my question.”
“Not really. I guess I’m just surprised you knew about that.” His eyes flick over me, and I’m struck again by his eyes. Traffic-light green really is the best—the only way—to describe his eyes. Except, right now, they don’t just flash “go.” They flash “run.”
I push my feet into the ground.
“Considering it’s you,” Griff continues, passing one ink-stained hand through his hair, “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Yeah, I guess you shouldn’t.”
Unexpectedly, this makes him grin. Griff drops onto the first chaise lounge and pats the cushion next to him. “You look miserable. Stop drawing attention and just sit with me.”
I jerk my head side to side. “I’d rather stand.”
“I’d rather you sit with me.” Griff’s hand snakes up, seizes my wrist. This should be the part where he yanks me down, and I have to fight to get away. But he holds my wrist like I’m fragile as glass and sharper than needles. “He can’t touch you here. He can’t touch either of us here. Just relax. Please.”
No one ever says that to me. And maybe it’s the “please,” or maybe it’s him. Or maybe it’s just that, deep down, I really want to be next to him, but I cave. My knees bend, and I fit myself against his side.
And even though I’m panicking, it feels like coming home.
“So what’s the deal?” I ask.
“They wanted me to come in for questioning.”
“About what?”
“My father. He didn’t take off to California just for the weather or whatever. He left to get away from his dealer.”
Next to me, Griff fidgets. He’s usually so still, like he’s always holding his breath.
“It’s really no big deal, Wicked.” Griff turns his attention to my palm. He’s rubbing his thumb in circles across my lifeline now. “I thought it would be better to go with Detective Carson than do the interview in the principal’s office.”
True, but now he’s a liability. It won’t matter if the cops were asking Griff about his dad. Joe will think they were questioning Griff about the scam. Oh God, if Joe finds out . . .
I shudder.
As if he can read my mind, Griff slowly shakes his head. “We did the interview in private. No one else knows. I’m seventeen. I’m protected. Carson doesn’t know anything about Joe. What happened . . . it doesn’t change anything.”
“If Joe hears about it,” I say, “he’ll come after you. It’s not safe for you to be involved anymore.”
I start to pull away, and this time, Griff grips me.
“He won’t know if you don’t tell, and I don’t think you would do that to me.”
My eyes jerk to his. He trusts me? Why?
“I’m safe,” Griff says. “But you aren’t.”
He says Carson spent most of the time asking about me. He thinks because we’re from the same neighborhood, Griff will know all about me: what I do in my free time, what kind of computer setup I have. Turns out I’m not paranoid; Carson does suspect me of hacking.
It makes my anxiety grow large enough to split my skin.
“What did you tell him?”
“I didn’t tell him anything.” Griff leans back, pulling me with him. He pushes into the cushions until I’m draped across his chest, pressing my breasts and abdomen into him. I usually think of myself as a prickly person, but Griff makes me feel like I’m melting. “You’ve got to believe me. I didn’t tell him anything.”
Carson wouldn’t have accepted that. There’s no way. I start to tell Griff exactly that when I realize he isn’t watching me anymore. His eyes are trained beyond my shoulder, watching Carson’s car idle.
“Everything I know about you, Wicked, is useless to him.”
I snort. Joe and the scam and Tessa are not useless. Jesus. Tessa. I need to ask him about Michael Starling’s real name, but I can’t stop thinking about everything Griff knows that could bury me. “Oh yeah? How so?”
“I know your laugh sounds rough, rusted. I know you look hungry even after you’ve eaten. I know you get pitched into Dumpsters. Everything else is just details.”
His eyes slant toward me, darken. “Should I go on?”
“The only thing I’m hungry for is coffee.” I sound pissy, but I’m grinning like an idiot, like Lily with a new dress, like my mom when she was still in love with my dad.
My insides twist.
I know better than to look like this. I know better than to feel like this.
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it, Griff. You know more than enough about the scam and Joe and me to interest Carson. How do I know you didn’t tell him?”
“Because you’re still here.” Griff reaches for me, curls his hands into my hair. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”
I try to get my balance, try to find the girl I’m supposed to be, the one all of Griff’s attention and Bren’s nagging and Lily’s reassurances are threatening to erase.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I say, and push myself up. I’m sitting now, and there’s still not enough space between us. I get up and Griff’s fingers brush down my hand, disappear from my skin. Good. I think better when we’re not touching. “I’m fine.”
Griff watches me, and so I don’t have to look, I watch Carson.
“Why do you do it?” he asks.
Funny how I don’t have to ask for clarification. “Hacking is what I’m good at.”
“You’re good at math. I don’t see you doing people’s homework for pay.”
“Probably because it doesn’t pay enough.” Bitchy. I sound bitchy and I don’t want to. It’s the truth and yet not how I meant for it to sound. “Sorry, it’s . . . why don’t you do something else?”
“You have better options than I do.”
True, I have Bren and Todd . . . but why does it feel like Griff’s leaving something out? He doesn’t say anything and neither do I. The silence blooms. I can feel how much he wants me to break it, but I won’t. I know better. You can’t con a con.
“Are you planning to run?”
I have to smother the laugh. Or maybe it was a sob. Maybe he knows what I’m playing at too. “Yes . . . if I have to.”
“But in the meantime, you’re catching bad guys.”
Another almost laugh. He makes the whole thing sound so heroic, like I’m not freaking terrified. I look at Griff, catch him looking at me like he gets the joke too. His smile is suspended by strings.
I turn to focus on Carson, but the street is empty. He’s gone.
“I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Griff. I made it worse.”
“I’m not sorry.” Behind me, the cushions whisper as Griff gets up. He comes close, so close his lips hover just over my ear. “You need my help, Wicked. Kiss me and I’ll do it.”
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I used to grin like a freaking idiot when I saw him.
—Page 23 of Tessa Waye’s diary
“What?” Behind us,
the volleyball game has ended, and the winners are trying to drown the losers in the pool. Everything is weirdly normal yet utterly wrong. I couldn’t have heard him right.
“Kiss me and I’ll help you.”
Kiss me. It’s a command, but it sounds like a prayer. “Yeah, I so don’t do blackmail.”
“It’s a barter system, Wicked. You should understand that.” Griff walks around me. He notices Carson’s absence, and his mouth thins. “You want something from me and I want something from you.”
“That’s not what this is about.” That’s not what he’s supposed to be about. I don’t want Griff to be just like Joe or my dad, where it was always about what I could do for them.
I look up at him. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because for the first time in three years I have something you want, and I’m going to use it.” Griff smiles, but there’s no warmth to it. “See what I meant when I said we were alike?”
He eases one step closer, and when I don’t bolt, his shoulders relax. Maybe he’s as scared as I am.
It’s just a kiss. It’s no big deal . . . so why am I afraid? I should just do it.
At the other end of the yard, the volleyball players splash out of the pool and trail inside, leaving us completely alone. I step away from Griff, but it doesn’t work. He just gets closer. “Bullshit, you’re already in, Griffin. Lauren told me you had names linked to my IP address. So what’s that mean? You’ve already tracked him?”
“I did some research. We both know Michael Starling is a fake name, and he did the upload from the library. Get the names of whoever checked out the computer with the matching IP address and we have our guy.”
“And you’re going to do that how?”
Griff shrugs. “You have your methods. I have mine. You’re taunting a psychopath, Wick. Whoever this guy is, you don’t want to mess with him.”
No, I don’t. I raise my chin. “I have to make this right.”
“It’s never going to be right and you know it. Some things can’t be fixed.”
Find Me Page 14
