He switches his attention to me. “Tell me how you got in.”
“Rear window. Second floor.”
“How’d you get out?”
“Same way.”
Carson scrubs one hand along his jaw. “What I don’t understand is why the security guards left. I sent two officers up to Atlanta to question—”
“It looked like they were called away.”
“Go on.”
I grip the couch cushions under my knees, suddenly very, very aware of Griff watching me. “I was on the bike path. It looked like one got a text or maybe a visual voice mail. He showed it to the other and they left.”
Carson swirls his drink around as he thinks about that. “So what does that mean?”
“It means your killer has someone on the inside of the security firm,” Griff says.
“Or,” I counter, “it means we’re dealing with another hacker.”
Both of them look at me. Carson’s interested. Griff’s . . . shuttered.
“Security firm like that,” I say slowly, trying out the words. “They don’t make mistakes. Their people don’t just wander off. They get orders. They’re told what to do, and whoever told them was someone they trusted and knew.”
Carson sits up. “Or they thought it was someone they trusted and knew.”
“Exactly. Getting into Barton and Moore’s main computers would be really freaking hard. Getting into a supervisor’s cell phone and accessing his people from that cell phone? Easier.”
“Anything else?” the detective asks.
“What about the . . .” I close my eyes. Open them. I’m afraid of what I’ll see in the dark. “Bones I found? How did you explain it?”
“Body was reported by an anonymous tip.” The detective digs around in his jacket, pulls out a plastic baggie. Inside, there’s a dark square of something and Carson flicks it onto the coffee table, where it lands with surprising weight.
It’s a wallet.
Carson pushes the baggie around so I can see the girl in the dirt-stained license smile at me. “You know who that is?”
I shake my head. The plastic is so stained I can’t make out much of the face, only the long blond hair.
“That is—was—Kyle Bay’s girlfriend, Lell Daley. You uncovered her body.”
Next to me, Griff stiffens. Even through my jeans, I can feel how his muscles stand up like rope.
Carson leans off the side of his couch and sifts through a box of files on the floor. He pulls a set of folders onto his lap and flips through a few, flicking a couple of pictures onto the coffee tabletop. “According to her mother, the girl”—Carson taps the face of a girl with honey-blond hair, her skin almost Crayola orange from fake tanner—“eloped with Kyle Bay a few years ago.”
I recognize Kyle at once. Dark hair. Deep-set eyes. There’s a sneer at the corners of his mouth like he’s trying—and failing—not to laugh at you. It’s so much like his dad I scowl.
“They were both eighteen so it’s not like anyone could do anything,” Carson continues. “Mrs. Daley was thrilled with the marriage.”
“The Bays weren’t?”
“That would be my guess. The real question is, when did she die? According to her mother, she eloped four years ago.”
“Somehow I don’t think she made it that far.”
“Agreed.”
We watch each other for a moment and Carson breaks first, reaching for the bottle again. He doesn’t pour another drink, but he studies the liquid like he wants to.
“So if Lell’s body is in the ground,” I say. “Where’s Kyle?”
Carson toasts me with the bottle. “Isn’t that just the question of the hour?”
“Is Kyle a suspect?” Griff asks. He hasn’t spoken in so long that Carson and I both blink like we’d forgotten him.
“Pretty much my number one suspect,” Carson says. “Kid’s been gone for years and now Bay’s getting emails about remembering and the assistant who hated Kyle turns up murdered.”
“Kyle and Chelsea didn’t get along?” I ask.
“According to Ian, they didn’t. You sure you were the only other person in the house?”
I rub damp palms against my jeans. “Why?”
“Because Ian Bay was attacked today and he says his brother did it.”
The room is suddenly stuffed with silence. “How bad is he?” I ask at last.
Carson shrugs. “His face is pretty trashed and he’s scared, but he’ll live—he’s already home again. He said his brother jumped him. They fought. Kyle knocked him out cold. You must have interrupted them.”
My stomach lurches. So that means . . .
“It must have been Kyle who followed me,” I say slowly. “I fell in that sinkhole and he covered it not knowing I was down there.”
Carson goes still. “Do you think you could identify him?”
“No, not really. I only saw him from a distance. He was tall . . . had baggy clothes.”
“Brilliant, Wicket. That narrows it down. What happened?”
I quickly sketch the details: sinkhole, mud, a whistle that makes my skin crawl, and the footsteps that circled my car. I study the veins standing up on the backs of my hands and tell Carson everything: how I’ve screwed myself, how I’ve endangered my sister, how I’ve endangered my mom.
As soon as I say the m word, I cringe. Which mom? What was I thinking?
If Carson notices, he doesn’t say anything. In fact, he’s so quiet I finally look up and, out of everything I expected to see, I never thought he’d be smiling.
“What?” I demand.
“Maybe we can use this to our advantage.”
Carson sounds so hopeful my heart should lift, but the way he’s smiling makes my skin go cold.
“This is excellent,” he continues. “Really excellent. Welcome to the side of good, Wick. You’re finally going to help do the right thing.”
“What?”
“Aside from Ian, you’re the only other person who’s seen Kyle alive. He’ll track you down. He’ll have to. So we make that work for us. I’m going to use you. As bait.”
“Fuck no.” Griff puts his hand on top of mine. “You can’t do that.”
Carson laughs. “You sure? Because I don’t think she has a choice. She blew it. He saw her—has probably traced her car by now. She’s a loose end.”
He’s right. I stare at the carpet, not sure I can even say what I need to say because he’s right and now I have to live with it.
“I could protect you, Wick,” Carson says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. It makes his words slide like butter. “But you’ll have to do what I want.”
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Someone from Carson’s team calls, and while he’s on the phone, Griff and I leave. I need to get home, call Bren from the house number, and tell her I broke my phone. I’m worried she’s been texting me and, since I haven’t responded, my adoptive mom will be convinced I’m dead in a ditch somewhere.
It’s kinda funny how close to the truth that almost is.
Griff and I walk silently to my car, making it to the end of the dirt drive before he finally turns to me.
“Bait?”
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Don’t.”
“Wick—”
“Don’t! Just don’t. I have this. It’s fine.” I focus on the road, acutely aware of Griff’s gaze sliding up and down me.
“You didn’t know her, did you?”
“Lell? No. Did you?”
“Yeah. Sort of. She lived a few doors down from us. Her mom liked to party with my mom.” Griff stretches his legs out, plays with a loose thread on his jeans. “I haven’t thought about her in years. I must’ve been one of the last people to see her before she . . .”
Died. Say it. I can. Why can’t he?
We make a left onto the main highway and I force my
self to be quiet. I want to ask for more details, but Griff still seems to be working through his memories. He’s staring out the window, wandering through cast-off moments he never thought he’d have to remember.
“Her trailer got robbed,” he says at last. A cop car passes us and we both sit straighter, watching the rearview mirrors. Griff because he’s trying to see if it’s his cousin. Me because, well, I’m me.
“I remember my mom dragging me over there so she could see Lell’s mom.” He sinks into the seat. “I think her name was Reichelle. Anyway, I remember Reichelle just crying and crying and Lell was, I dunno, smiling like she was okay with all her stuff being broken and stolen.”
Griff shakes his head, cracks his knuckles. “I thought she was as crazy as her mother. Later, when we all found out she ran off with that rich kid, I thought I knew why she didn’t care. He was just going to buy her more stuff. It was probably freeing to lose it all.”
“Really? I think that’s weird. Don’t people usually get attached to their things?”
“Yeah, and after a while, it owns you. If you lose it all?” His voice tilts and there’s a wistfulness that I’ve never heard in it before. “You get to build it back up.”
“Do you really think she thought they were going to run away?”
“Oh yeah.” Griff sighs heavily as we turn into my neighborhood, staring down the gas lanterns as we pass the entrance. “I was barely around her and I knew all about her rich boyfriend. Maybe she already knew they were going to run. Maybe to her, she already had a light in the dark. She thought he was her savior and he killed her.”
I park the Mini in the garage and reach for Griff’s hand, missing it by a mile. “Griff?”
“I’m going to check the house.” He jumps out of the car, slams the door behind him.
“I’ll come—”
“Don’t.”
I do. I push past Griff and he grabs my arm. It’s nothing . . . or it should be until Griff’s fingers dig in, hitting damaged nerves. My vision ripples.
“Griff.”
He drops me like I burned him. “Shit! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry.” I laugh, but it’s shaky. “Remember me? The girl whose dad kicked her around? I’ve been through way worse. I’m durable.”
“You should never have to worry about that with me.” Griff smile is bitter. “I’m . . . edgy. I’m sorry, Wicked.”
They’re always sorry after they hurt you. The thought slithers from the dark and, just as quickly, returns to it, lying in some unused corner to wait. I’m being ridiculous. This is Griff. Not my dad. Not Todd.
I reach for him again and he sidesteps me, goes upstairs to check the bedrooms, leaving me to circle through the downstairs, noting how everything is fine. Perfect even. The lamplight has turned the rooms peach and gold, like we’re living in a jewelry box. Knowing Bren, that’s probably on purpose.
Except for a tiny smear of dirt still on the kitchen floor, the house is as immaculate as ever. I’m wiping up the mud when Griff walks into the kitchen.
“It’s empty. You’re safe.”
“Thanks.” The word’s so small I don’t think he even hears me.
Or maybe he does, because Griff pauses, hovering as if he wants to tell me something. I step closer and Griff shakes his head, once, like he’s clearing it, and says, “I should go.”
“Okay.” He’s out the door now and I sit on the floor listening for his motorcycle long after the sound has disappeared. After a bit, I make my way upstairs and, out of habit, my hand brushes the painted-over mark from where I crashed into the wall as Todd chased me. Between the lighting and the dark paint, you can’t see the dent unless you feel for it, but it’s there.
In my bedroom, I collapse into my desk chair, reminding myself that at least one good thing came out of this: The sniffer was installed. I should be able to start working on Bay tonight. The thought is such a relief it takes me a beat before I realize my laptop is on . . . and I never leave it running when I’m not around.
Slowly, I straighten and look around my bedroom. Nothing’s been moved. Nothing’s been touched.
But suddenly it feels like someone’s been here.
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Bren takes the cell phone accident better than I expected. It’s probably side effects from the mini-vacation to Birmingham—her voice is the lightest I’ve heard it in weeks—but she tells me it’s okay and these things happen. She’s even generous enough to offer me one of her old cells. It’s completely lovely and makes me feel way worse.
Tears are dangerously close to my surface now and I know I should get off the phone before I blurt how I screwed up everything . . . and yet I can’t seem to make myself—hearing Bren’s stories about their trip feels like a lifeline.
I wait for them with every light on in the house. And when Bren and Lily finally come up the driveway, I pretend that this is who I really am: a girl whose little sister grabs her for a bear hug, a girl whose adoptive mom grins and waves the moment she sees her.
It feels so good I almost believe it.
“What happened to your face?” Lily hisses, one arm snagged around my neck.
I resist the urge to touch the cut with my fingertips. It looks better than it did. I found some concealer in Bren’s bathroom and touched up the edges, thinking about my mom the entire time, how she used to do the same thing after my dad went after her. It was all very, Maybe she was hit in the head. Maybe it’s Maybelline.
“’S no big deal,” I say. “I tripped and fell.”
Lily’s scowl doesn’t last. She’s too flipping happy and wants to show me a trophy that’s almost as tall as she is. She bounces through the house, alternating between dancing and doing moves from her routine, giving me a play-by-play of the tournament.
I don’t remember ever loving anything that much. It makes me feel even worse.
I spend time with Bren, helping her unload the SUV while Lily runs upstairs to shower. Used to be, I needed my sister around to make small talk with my adoptive mom, but we’ve gotten better.
At least for the three seconds before Bren sees the cut on my face.
“What. Did you. Do?”
“Slipped. I have to remember to pick my feet up.” Along with Stand Up Straight, Pick Your Feet Up is one of Bren’s favorite discussion topics and never gets old.
For her.
My adoptive mom must really be tired though because she sighs and follows me into the house, muttering about ordering takeout. While Bren studies the Pies On Pizza menu pinned to the fridge, I drag Lily’s suitcase upstairs.
Only to find my sister in my room.
Lily’s facing my bed and I don’t even make it through the door before my stomach sinks two inches lower. Something’s wrong. “Lil?”
She turns around and heat rolls up my neck.
Lily holds out one hand, the two DVD cases fanned against her fingers. “What are these?”
There’s a rushing in my ears—my blood’s humming like bees. “Why were you snooping behind my bed?”
“Because I wanted to borrow one of your jump drives. I have pictures I want to download.” Dull red climbs Lily’s cheeks. “What are these?”
“Police interviews.”
“With Mom’s name on them?”
I swallow. “Yeah. They were . . . given to me.” Even though that’s true, the words sound lame and Lily’s pale eyes narrow. “She was informing on Dad, working with the police against him.”
“Were you going to tell me about them?”
“I couldn’t figure out what to say.” It’s true. It’s so true. I can’t decide what I think of it myself. How am I supposed to explain it to my sister?
“You say, ‘I have videos of Mom.’”
“Do you want to watch them?”
Lily jerks her head side to side. “No
way. I don’t care. I don’t get why you had them and didn’t tell me.”
I can see her hurt, feel it—because we both know the sister code. You can lie to yourself, lie to your parents, but you never ever lie to each other. “Lil, I’m sorry. I really didn’t know what to say. She had this whole secret life and I had no idea, did you?”
Nothing. I wait for Lily to digest the revelation. I can’t tell if she does. Her features stay hard. “Did you hear what I said?” I ask.
“Do I look like I care?”
“I . . . how could you not care?”
Lily throws the DVDs onto the bed. “You’re going to mess everything up, Wick. What if Bren finds them?”
“What if she does?” Crap, what if she does? How would I explain how I got them? How would I explain what I was doing with them? I glare at my sister and try to look like I’ve already thought of all these things and, more importantly, thought of ways around them.
It doesn’t work. There’s a lump in my chest and it’s scaling my throat with claws. I’m not going to feel guilty about this. I’m not.
“Don’t you care why she jumped?” I demand.
“No.” And for a moment, Lily looks so sad I think she’s lying . . . until I realize that sadness is for me.
“It’s more complicated than we knew, Lil. Let me show you some of the interviews.”
“No. She left us, Wick. She left us with him. I hate her for that.”
“She was sick. She wasn’t thinking—”
“She was selfish.”
I gape. It’s not like my sister’s comment is anything new. We heard it plenty of times after our mom’s death. Counselors, teachers, parents. Everybody had an opinion. It just feels new coming from Lily, like I’ve just been gouged open.
“You can’t forgive her, Wick. I don’t want Mom finding these.”
“Bren’s not our mom.”
“Fine, she’s my mom.” Lily glares at me. “Blood doesn’t excuse anyone. You don’t get a get-out-of-jail-free card because you’re related. Family is who you choose—not who you got stuck with because you share a gene pool. Bren doesn’t have to care for us. She chooses to. She went to find us. She’s not like . . .” Lily flails one hand and I can’t tell if she’s batting away our mother or groping for her name. “She left us, Wick. She. Left. Us.”
Remember Me Page 10
