Remember Me

by Bernard,Romily

  Frustrated, I open my desk drawer, pull out the homework I should be doing . . . and my eye catches the sniffer.

  As long as I’m on the subject of people I don’t know shit about, I might as well take care of Milo too.

  I open another browser window, spend a few minutes wiring money to the builder’s account. Thank God my clients paid me well. I’ve saved everything I’ve earned from the past few years in an offshore account, making it easy to move funds around. After I get the wire transfer confirmation, I email it to the address Milo gave me. Then I open Google and type in his name. It doesn’t take much time to find out the builder went to Westminster, an überpricey private school on the north side of Atlanta, and based on the graduation date from the Facebook alumni page, he can’t be older than twenty.

  Other than that? There’s nothing else—not exactly unusual for someone like him, and it’d be disappointing if his father weren’t a completely different story.

  According to two online newspapers, Simon Gray used to work for the NSA. Then, following a total nervous breakdown, bounced between mental institutions and jail. The arrest reports are pretty much all the same: loitering, resisting arrest, drunk in public.

  Rinse. Repeat. End up living with Milo.

  Interesting. I can’t quite reconcile the swaggering techie with someone who has this kind of backstory and I’m not sure if that says something about him . . . or something about me.

  I look at the time again. Three a.m. No point in going to sleep. Might as well stay up and watch the rest of the interviews.

  The thought makes my stomach tilt.

  Maybe Griff was right. This is bad stuff and I should never have looked, but now I did and I don’t know what to do. All I can think about is my dad’s addicts, how I never understood why you would return again and again to something that would make you bleed.

  I guess I have my answer now: How can you not? I push play again, watch my mother’s face come to life. For the first time, there’s a case number at the bottom of the screen. Coincidence?

  See how she was used.

  My mom stares into the camera and recites her week with my dad. He’s brought home some druggie. The girl is sleeping on our couch. He’s doing something in the garage. She’s not sure what because he locks the door every time he leaves.

  My mom catalogs everything in a flat voice, like this is all no big deal, and I catch my mind wandering, trying to figure out which week she’s referencing. This was important enough to tell them and yet I don’t remember it. How much was she hiding from us?

  They get to the end of the interview and the officer tells her she can leave. The camera leans to the left, presumably as someone gropes for the off button.

  “One last thing,” she says, and the camera stops rocking. They’re waiting on her and she milks the moment, stretching the silence. “There’s someone following me. It’s not my imagination. I think someone knows and if that’s true and he finds out . . . he’ll have me killed.”

  The screen goes black.

  There are no more interviews.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I finally wake up, it’s early afternoon. I check the DVDs (still hidden) and pad downstairs, fixing myself a sandwich while Bren watches me from around her magazine.

  “Wick? Are you okay?”

  “Migraine,” I whisper. It’s not that far from the truth anyway. My head is thumping. All I can think about is how that can’t be everything. There have to be more interviews.

  Only there aren’t—no matter how many times I sift through the DVDs’ files, I don’t find anything.

  Lily and Bren go to bed around ten, but I can’t settle down and end up doing homework until after four. The good news? I’m now ahead in all my subjects. The bad news? None of it drowned out the loop in my head: no more interviews. No more information.

  At this rate, I’ll have to wait for another DVD and that’s what? Another two days? Maybe? How am I supposed to sit by?

  I swallow and my throat clicks. Answer is: I don’t.

  I have a case number now. And was that a mistake? Or was it deliberate? The thought makes the base of my skull prickle and I push the idea under until it stops kicking. Bottom line, I have a case number. I could use that.

  I just need to get into the police department’s system.

  I close the interview menu and open my browser. I haven’t done this sort of scam since I worked for Joe and my dad and it takes a little setup. First, I check the Peachtree City Police Department’s home page, writing down a few detectives’ names. Then I head to the Fayette County home page, where I double-check the IT director’s name. Yep, it’s still Bill Bearden.

  Bill hits the city blogs from time to time because he’s spearheading a modernization movement within the county government—new databases, new computers, new electronic filing systems. It’s about as exciting as drain hair except the Peachtree City Police Department has been taking part—I’ve heard Carson’s bitching—and that means I might have an in.

  All I need now is a Peachtree City government phone number. I click the browser on my cell and surf through a few different phone spoofing sites until I get the one I want.

  The premise is pretty simple: scam your friends and family by changing your phone number. Well, you don’t actually change your number. You just change the way it appears on your target’s caller ID. You can make it look like you’re phoning from anywhere: Santa’s house or your ex-girlfriend’s. In this case, I’ll be calling from Bearden’s county office.

  I plug the IT office’s number into the app and add Bearden’s name to appear above it. Down the hall, an alarm blares. Bren’s awake. I hit send.

  “Peachtree City Police Department,” a receptionist says. “This is Molly. How may I direct your call?”

  “Hi!” I go a little bubbly, hoping Molly equates perky with nonthreatening. “I’m Drea Thomas. I work with Mr. Bearden’s group over at the sheriff’s office. We’re working on that case file database you’ve been hearing all about.”

  The pause is so long I think she’s about to call my bullshit. “Oh, yeah. Right. What can I help you with?”

  “I’m verifying some log-in information.” I clear my throat, acting like I’m looking over whatever paperwork is supposed to be in front of me when all I really have is the three names I copied from the department’s website. “Is Detective Thompson still rthompson? Password—”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Molly takes a sip of something, swallows. “I’d have to ask one of the supervisors and they’re not in yet. Can you call later?”

  I wince. Definitely not. Odds are, a supervisor would ask more questions, and phishing scams work best on people who don’t. “Yeah, it is pretty early, isn’t it?”

  “Disgustingly.”

  I eye my bedroom door, listening for footsteps in the hall. “Hey, look, I’m really sorry to ask this, but Mr. Bearden’s going to be here soon for our morning staff meeting and I’ve gotta have this verification for him. Do you think you could look it up for me? I’m really sorry to ask. You know how he is.”

  I hold my breath, knowing I’m pushing it a bit. I’m preying on two things here. One, people are usually willing to help coworkers. Two, she knows what Bearden’s like or she’s willing to pretend she does.

  “I just want to make sure it’s right for your officers,” I add, forcing a smile into my voice even though I’m cringing.

  Molly sighs. “Believe me, you do. They are such babies when stuff doesn’t work. Hang on. I’ve got keys to the IT guy’s office. The chief makes him keep a printout of everyone’s passwords in case they forget.”

  I stuff down a squeal when Molly puts me on hold. When she says “everyone” is it possible she also means—

  “Okay.” Molly grunts into the receiver as she settles into her chair
. “You still there?”

  “Yep. I have Detective Thompson’s log-in as rthompson and his password—” I hesitate again like I’m looking up the information when, in reality, I’m making up a variation on the log-in Carson used (and I overheard) months ago. “Password is 865203A.”

  “No, that’s not right. His password is 594370LA.”

  I scribble it into my chemistry notebook. “And Chief Denton’s?” My tone spikes and I dig my thumbnail into my thigh, hold it. If she gives me the chief’s log-in info, I could access everything: my mom’s case info, my dad’s, everything. “I have pdenton and 962185G.”

  “You’re way off. He’s 433785GB.”

  “Wow, we had it completely wrong.” Head buzzing, I write the password above Thompson’s information.

  “You better make sure you check the others before the database goes live.”

  It isn’t already? I want to ask and can’t. A real employee would know that information. “Oh, yeah, definitely. We’re staggering the launches though. County stuff will be up before the city’s probably.”

  “Are we still up next week?”

  I grin. “Barring any problems, you should be. I’m going to put these correct passwords in now and I’ll verify the others later. Thanks so much, Molly. You have totally saved me.”

  I click off just as someone knocks at my door. Bren sticks her head inside. “Hey, you’re up already.” Worry tints her expression. “Insomnia again?”

  “No, just . . . eager to get the day started.”

  “Well, let’s get going then. I don’t want you to be late for your appointment with Dr. Norcut.” She nudges the door wide so I can follow her and I do. One more week. I touch the passwords and feel something inside me settle and go still.

  Maybe I should’ve pretended to be sick. As if discussing Chelsea Martin’s death with Dr. Norcut wasn’t fun enough, I get to hear about it all over again at school. It’s a different girl, different circumstances, but as I walk through the hallway, I feel like I’m in the days after Tessa Waye’s suicide . . . which then brings me to my mom and her suicide . . . and then to how terrified she sounded on the recording.

  I spend a couple minutes at my locker, swapping my books around. I didn’t do my history homework, and if there’s a pop quiz, I am so hosed. I flip open my notes, checking to see if I can fake my way through any of it, and hear a disgusting, guttural hocking noise to my left.

  I jerk right. Hard. Fast.

  Not fast enough.

  A wad of spit rolls down the side of my neck, disappearing into my collar. Gagging, I scrub my sleeve against my skin. It comes away sodden, a sticky mass glued to the fabric, and my stomach heaves into my mouth.

  “Whore.” Someone laughs and I look up in time to see Sutton Davis and Matthew Bradford blow past me, slapping each other on the back. Used to be I was just Freak. Thanks to Todd’s attentions, I’m now labeled Whore and Slut.

  “Ass—” I start to yell, and stop. Two teachers have arrived on the scene and they’re giving me the stink eye. Amazing how they missed the star lacrosse players being total douche canoes, but they’re ready and waiting for me to mess up. I slam my locker door extra hard just as Lauren appears at my side.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I mutter. I don’t want to explain. Unlike me, Lauren is popular. She brushes the description off. It’s true though. If you call her on it, she’ll just say our classmates want to be around her because she doesn’t want to be around them. She’ll also say that when I avoid them I look scared.

  I say when I avoid them I stay out of Dumpsters and don’t get spit on.

  Well. Usually don’t.

  Anyway, it’s one of the few things we disagree on and I can’t really argue with Lauren’s results; the tactic obviously works for her. We’ve been best friends ever since she moved here almost a year ago. She knows about my hacking, my mom, Carson, pretty much everything. It still amazes me she sticks around.

  Lauren leans one shoulder against the locker bank. “Can you believe this? You’d think Chelsea was all they had to talk about.”

  “It probably is.” I turn my sleeve over and paw at my neck again. There’s something about Lauren’s tone that makes me curious. “Did you know her?”

  “Sort of. My parents supported Bay’s last run for office. His team was at our house a few times for parties—fund-raising things. She was going to write my recommendation letter to Duke. . . . Are you itchy or something?”

  I drop my hand. I’m going to have to bleach myself before I feel clean. “Or something. What was Chelsea like?”

  “Uptight. Driven.”

  Interesting. Coming from Lauren this is pretty excellent praise. Above us, the first bell rings. We need to get going, but when I glance up and down the hallway, Griff’s nowhere in sight and my stomach squeezes tight all over again.

  “You coming?” Lauren asks, turning to head toward our first class. I hesitate and then follow her, telling myself it’s fine. Really. Griff must have had something come up.

  But it feels off.

  “Chelsea was close to finishing law school,” Lauren continues. “Working for Bay was just a stop along the way to something bigger.”

  We turn down the science hall and Lauren slows, dragging out our time together before she has to turn in to her English class. “I know the newspaper is speculating that it was personal. I agree. A few days before she died, I saw Chelsea talking to that detective who was always sniffing around you. She looked upset.”

  Part of Carson’s charm. “Wonder what he wanted.”

  “Exactly. Because, thing is, once I started thinking about it, I realized I’ve seen the detective and Chelsea together before—when I was dropping off campaign stuff for my mom at Bay’s office. Chelsea looked really unhappy. What could he possibly have wanted to talk to her about? Do you think he knew something was going to happen?”

  “Miss Cross, Miss Tate.” Lauren’s English teacher walks past us, her Band-Aid-colored panty hose rubbing together. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

  Lauren rolls her eyes and leans closer to me. “Hey, look, I’m going to be out of school for a few days—maybe a week.”

  “Your mom again?” Lauren sometimes misses school to care for her, but it’s been months since she’s had to.

  Lauren nods. “Yeah, but maybe this doctor will actually be good.”

  Unlike all the others hangs between us.

  “Anyway,” Lauren says. “I’ll see you later?”

  “Definitely,” I return, and sit through my morning classes in a blur of Chelsea Martin. Why would Carson want to talk to her? Had to be because of her connection with the judge. As his assistant, she would see everything. It would make her an excellent resource.

  Griff said I should think about how Carson was willing to use me and how he might be willing to use other people. Could that extend to Chelsea?

  Like someone flipped a switch, the word leverage strings across my brain in Christmas lights. If he was pressuring the judge’s assistant and she ended up dead . . . maybe there’s something I could use against him. In the middle of calculus, I start to grin, and even though I should be thinking of Chelsea, I’m now thinking about my family, about Griff.

  He’s right. If I could get leverage on Carson, we could go free.

  I go straight home after school. There aren’t any other “study guides” waiting for me on the hall table and the whole house smells like vanilla. Like complicated, delicate desserts.

  Which means something’s happened and Bren’s upset.

  I edge farther into the kitchen, trying to quietly assess the situation. There’s a Julia Child cookbook lying open on the counter, about twenty ramekins of something buttery scattered across the island, and both ovens are going. Yep, Bren’s upset.

  I am so not good in these situations.

  Bren sniffles and I flinch. There’s no way I can leave now. I force myself into the kitchen, hop onto a bar stool. “Hey.�
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  “Wick!” Bren swipes at her eyes. “You scared me!”

  “Sorry.” And I have to bite my lip to keep from repeating it. There’s something I need to say here and I don’t know what it is. My adoptive mom isn’t crying, but she has been. Her eyes have red smeared around their edges. “You okay?”

  “Yes. No.” Her gaze searches the ceiling, comes down to meet mine. “I will be. I had to stop by Lily’s school today and I ran into another mother.”

  It’s the way she says “mother” that makes me wince. I know where this is headed and I want to tell Bren to stop, to not tell me because I don’t want her to have to relive it. Only there’s no way to say that without sounding bitchy.

  Or maybe it’s because it feels like exposing her marriage’s rotten underbelly is something else I’ve done to her. I’ve lied. I’ve hidden things. I’ve pretended to be someone I’m not.

  She didn’t deserve any of it.

  “She was so nice,” Bren continues. “We talked for a few minutes because her daughter cheers with Lily. She had already invited me to come to lunch with some of the other moms and I thought she was lovely until they called my name . . . and she just . . . shuddered. She looked at me like she finally realized who I was, what I was, and she was horrified.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” It was mine.

  No. It was Todd’s.

  “I trusted him,” Bren adds, the words piling together in her rush. “I loved him. I should have kept you safe and I didn’t.”

  “It turned out okay. No one got hurt.”

  “You did.”

  I start to say that ten stitches and a concussion isn’t really getting hurt—it isn’t permanent—but then Bren will bring up the nerve damage in my arm. No matter how many times I tell her it’s fine, she doesn’t believe me. It’s the only lie I’ve ever told I couldn’t get her to buy.

  “You were worth it,” I blurt. It’s true. Maybe we do have a fairy tale ending because in every fairy tale there’s always a villain and ours was Todd.