Remember Me

by Bernard,Romily

  The words should not sting. They shouldn’t. I taught them to Lily. I repeated them and repeated them until she believed them—because I believed them. Now? Now I don’t know.

  Once, Lily had been the one to tell me how our mom would never have left us, and she might have been right.

  I ruined that.

  I’ve ruined everything.

  “Get rid of them,” Lily says. “I don’t want Bren finding them. She’s fragile right now.”

  Fragile? That’s a Norcut word. I cross both arms. “You’re not the only one who cares about her.”

  “Doesn’t look that way.”

  “So in order to care about Bren, I have to pretend all of this never happened?”

  Lily shrugs. “It happened and it doesn’t matter anymore. You used to tell me to think of the future. What happened to you?”

  Carson . . . Todd . . . Griff.

  Now I can’t figure out what my life would be like if any of them hadn’t happened.

  I’m not sure I would trade it. Looking at my sister though, I know Lily would. She used to be the other side of me, but we’re no longer the same.

  And I keep making decisions that take us farther apart.

  “Promise me you’ll stop, Wick—if not for her then do it for me.” Lily’s eyes are saucer round, her fury dissolving into fear. “Please?”

  “Of course.” The words are instant and inevitable. I agree to anything when it comes to my sister . . . so why do I sound rusted? Like some part of me just broke.

  “Wick? Lily?”

  Bren. For a stomach-churning moment, I’m convinced she heard us.

  “Can you both come down here?”

  Lily bolts for the door and I’m hot behind her. We clatter down the stairs, skidding to a stop on the landing as my heart rides into my throat.

  Carson’s standing below us, beaming at me like I’m the good guy.

  Or like he is.

  “Girls,” Bren says, arms clamped tight around her middle. “You remember Detective Carson, don’t you? I know you do Wick. Lily?” She searches my sister’s face. “Do you remember?”

  Lily nods, serene as some ceramic doll . . . as long as you don’t notice how her hands are clenched.

  “There have been some new developments,” Bren continues. “Some possible leads in your father’s case. He’s going to monitor the house for the next few weeks. Make sure we’re safe.”

  “It’s all going to be fine,” Carson says.

  All I hear is you’ll have to do what I want.

  I stare at the detective and know I’m never getting out of this.

  Still, he’s keeping up his end of the deal. I should feel safer now.

  Funny how I don’t.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  It feels like I’ve only been asleep for minutes when my new phone vibrates, skittering around on top of my nightstand. I slap my hand around until I find the cell, hold the screen a few inches from my face. It’s a text from Griff.

  morning, wicked

  I text

  can’t wait to see you

  And I can’t.

  Another text message.

  What do you have for me?

  Ugh. It’s a number I don’t recognize, but I know it’s Carson. He’s using a burner phone.

  A body isn’t enough?

  A few seconds pass and my phone buzzes again.

  Maybe your social worker should pay you a visit.

  I start typing a text illustration of a hand giving Carson the bird. I’m barely into my tenth dash before the next text comes through:

  Maybe I should let him have you. Or them.

  My heart heaves. He’s just screwing with you. Stick to your part of the agreement and he’ll stick to his.

  Thing is, Carson would sacrifice Bren and Lily, and no matter how much I try to ignore this, it simmers under my skin.

  I roll to my side, deleting the texts and opening my phone’s email app. Thankfully, it’s only the usual school bulletins and sports practice schedules. Nothing that can’t—crap. There’s an email from Ian. He’s finished the notes for our project and wants to meet.

  I start to blow him off and decide against it. I might as well get this over with so I send a quick message asking Ian to meet me after school tomorrow. Then I switch to the sniffer’s email folder. All of Bay’s information has been feeding directly to my in-box, making it easy to see everything at a quick glance.

  I scroll through the items, wincing at the two texts telling poor Ian to “get the fuck back here.” I guess the kid really wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t like to be home. The emails between father and son aren’t much warmer either. Bay must have sent Ian ten different college applications—all expensive, Ivy League types—with orders for Ian to “get to work.”

  Wow. If I were Ian, I’d pick the school farthest from Bay and focus all my efforts on that one.

  I linger a moment more on the other emails, checking the sender names . . . and that’s when I see it. There’s a single email pinned between a scheduling request and something about an upcoming hearing.

  It’s from Dr. Norcut.

  I push myself upright, kick off the blankets. I had no idea they knew each other. I stab the email with my thumb and it opens in another screen.

  Mr. Bay,

  We’ve had our differences in the past, but you and I both know how important it is that we find Kyle before the police do. Please consider stopping by my office. I have a few thoughts on where we might find him.

  Dr. Allison Norcut

  Huh. It probably would go better for Kyle if he offered himself for questioning. Of course, if you killed someone, you probably wouldn’t want to do that.

  It kind of sounds like Norcut thinks he did kill someone. Or might have. Or . . . wait . . . is she intending to turn Kyle over at all? Or is she offering to help cover it up?

  I reread the email and still can’t decide. By finding Kyle before the police do, could they get him out of the country? Definitely . . . right?

  Actually, I have no idea. I do know if Bay can look the other way while my dad tortures my mom, he’d have no qualms with trying to get his kid out of a murder charge.

  I punch the forward button, plug in Carson’s personal email address. If the detective wants something, he can have this.

  Even with two coffees in me, Monday is still an exhausting blur. Go to class. Get homework. Go to another class. Get more homework. All I really want to do is crash, sleep for a week, and then smooth things over with Lily and Griff.

  Of course, in order to do that, I’d have to know how.

  A lie. I do know. I just have to give it all up. Drop my mom’s interviews in the trash. Find something on Carson. Too bad I haven’t managed to do either.

  Staying late at school doesn’t help much either. Ian was supposed to meet me to finish our project, but he never shows and I end up doing most of the work myself. Mrs. Lowe kicks me out of her classroom at six and it’s a relief. The hallways are quiet except for the hum of a floor polisher somewhere in the math wing. I’m almost to my locker when the dance team comes giggling toward me. I shuffle out of the way heading for my locker and something catches my eye.

  I should say someone. Milo’s walking straight toward me, pretending not to notice how the entire dance team is staring at him with open mouths.

  “What are you doing here?” I whisper-shout.

  Milo grins. “Well, Wicket Tate, as I live and breathe.”

  “Very funny. Seriously, what are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to see what you did all day. I can’t believe you’re actually going to high school.”

  As opposed to hacking the school’s systems and giving myself straight As? I try to look superior, like the thought never occurred to me. It isn’t working though because Milo’s grin slides wider and my face gets hot.

/>   Really hot.

  “It’s called being honest, Milo. You should try it.”

  “Why?”

  Two more girls walk past us, eyeing him and giggling. Milo smiles at them and they giggle louder, hurrying down the hallway.

  He turns to me. “Where’s your skinny gargoyle?”

  “Why do you care where Griff is?” I ask.

  “Maybe I don’t.” Milo holds up a large shopping bag. “Maybe I’m just here to play delivery.”

  I should probably be more concerned that Milo had zero problems getting onto campus with what could have been a bomb, but all I can think is: My new computer. Gimme. Gimme.

  I grab the bag with both hands and Milo laughs. Ignoring him, I pull out a sleek, compact desktop CPU, inhaling its plasticky, canned air scent.

  God, I love that.

  “That was a seriously fast build!” I slide the computer into the bag and pack the wrapping carefully around it. “Thank you! You didn’t have to bring it to me.”

  “Yeah, I did.” Milo smiles at another pair of girls. Wait. No. They’re the same ones. They’re just coming back for a second look. “You have cops at your house.”

  Does everyone know where I freaking live? I take a steadying breath, put two fingers to my suddenly jumping right eyelid. “Why were you at my house? You said you were going to contact me for pickup.”

  Milo shrugs, flashes me that same I’m sexy and I know it look. “Curiosity. I wanted to see where you live. I’ve been watching your work for years. Never suspected you were a girl until Griff brought you by. Gotta say, I was shocked.”

  “You sound like a sexist asshole.”

  “Thank you!” Milo props one hand against the lockers, the long sleeve of his shirt slipping down to reveal the edges of his tattoos. He leans a little closer, crowding me, and I back up, my shoulders nudging into the lockers.

  This feels like flirting and it shouldn’t.

  “Well, um, I appreciate you bringing it by, but you might want to get going. You’re not a student and I don’t want to have to explain what”—I flap one hand—“this is.”

  Because it isn’t really anything and yet Milo’s looking at me like it is.

  I hoist the shopping bag between us. “Thanks again,” I say, swerving around Milo and beating feet for the parking lot.

  I don’t make it three steps before I realize he’s following me.

  “Side note?” I turn around and he keeps coming. He doesn’t stop until our tennis shoes are nearly touching. “I don’t appreciate being stalked.”

  “Yeah, probably not.”

  “Is that supposed to be an apology?”

  Milo touches his fingers to his mouth, eyes pinned to me. “I could think of another way to show you I’m sorry.”

  My ears go nuclear. “Does that line usually work for you?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I have a boyfriend. Remember him? Your friend?”

  “Just because you do business with someone doesn’t make him your friend.”

  “Nice,” I say, and spin on my heel, power walk to my car.

  “Okay, look.” Milo strides along next to me and, somehow, that pisses me off even more. He’s as tall as Griff, and no matter how fast I walk, they can both easily keep up. “Sorry. I crossed some boundaries. I shouldn’t have said that. Any of that. I’d probably be a little freaked out too after what happened with your foster dad.”

  I want to be pissed. Freaking papers. Freaking Milo. Then again, it isn’t like I didn’t research him too and, shockingly, he does sound sorry, but as soon as I glance at him, I know it was a mistake. Milo’s dark eyes go suddenly bright.

  “’Cause your foster dad stalked you, right?” he continues. “And then you had to rely on pure dumb luck to catch him. Isn’t that the story in all the papers?”

  “Yep,” I agree, and even though he couldn’t possibly know the truth, Milo grins like he enjoys it when I lie.

  I jam my car keys into the lock and lean the driver’s seat down so I can put the computer on the floorboards. Milo bumps one hip against my car, staring down at me.

  “You sure you know what you’ve gotten into?” he asks.

  I throw a jacket on top of the bag. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

  “You working with your dad again? Is that what this is?”

  I don’t answer. The only thing worse than working for your career criminal father is being blackmailed into working for a career cop. Let Milo think what he wants.

  He searches my face, eyes lingering again on my mouth. “It’s a terrible thing to have power. No one knows how to use it.”

  “You say that like you’re the one person who does.”

  “Hell no. I think you could.”

  I don’t know what to say. Milo being earnest is far more distracting than Milo being . . . Milo. “I’ll check the hardware tonight. Thanks again for the work.”

  “I want to help.”

  I don’t answer. I open my messenger bag, digging around for a folder that should be there and . . . isn’t. Crap. I left my project folder in Mrs. Lowe’s classroom.

  “I want to help,” Milo repeats.

  “Why?” Wrong thing to say. Not “I don’t need help.” Not “I work alone.” Why? Because I’m an idiot.

  “How about because it’s the closest I’ll ever get to being a superhero?” he says. It’s a joke and yet it comes across as serious . . . interested.

  “Um, yeah, I’m good. Thanks.” I peel away, heading for the school, and this time, he doesn’t follow. But just as I think I’m in the clear, he calls:

  “Then how about because I can get you into Dr. Norcut’s computer files?”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  “Yeah, I thought that would get your attention.” Milo’s tennis shoes scrape against the pavement as he approaches me. “That sniffer works brilliantly, if I do say so myself, which I do.”

  “You were checking the sniffer I bought from you?”

  “Well, technically, you didn’t buy it. Why do you care?” Milo’s trying for defiant, but there’s an undercurrent of worry beneath his words. He’s expecting me to pull a hissy and I’m pretty freaking close.

  I take a breath, blow it between my teeth until there’s nothing left in me. “In what universe did you think I would be happy about you screwing with my job?”

  “The same universe that has cops outside your house and you digging into a judge’s personal life. Who’s this job for anyway?”

  I stare at him, waiting for him to realize I’m never going to tell.

  “I can help get you into her files,” Milo says, the words pickup-line smooth. “I did all her networking. It was a few years ago when I was still freelancing. I left back doors in case I should ever need them.”

  Something cold coils in my stomach. Keeps his fingers in everyone’s business, doesn’t he? I grab my phone, check the time. “I have to go.”

  Milo deflates a little. I’m not sure what he expected from me? Squealing? A kiss? I don’t appreciate his interference.

  Then again, if I play this right, Milo could be helpful. I try not to think about what that would make me though. Something similar to Carson, I suspect, and the thought leaves me a little sick.

  “If you really want to help,” I say. “I want to know if anyone’s been hired lately to do work against Barton and Moore. Can you ask some of your contacts?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “I want to confirm a hunch. I’ll keep your other offer in mind, Milo. Thanks.” I take off before he can respond, focusing on my project, on my homework, on anything except for how I can feel Milo’s gaze—heavy, hot—between my shoulder blades.

  I slide back inside the school, hit the stairs two at a time, and by the time I reach the second floor, I’m repeating how I’ve got this, I’m okay . . . and maybe that’s why I don’t hear the
voices.

  By the time I do, it’s too late.

  Matthew Bradford, Sutton Davis, and Eric Williams have pinned Ian to the floor outside the bathroom, Ian’s polo shirt rucked up to expose a fish-white belly.

  “Leave him alone.” I sound pissed and I am, but I have to stab both feet into the tile to keep from running.

  All four boys stare at me. Matthew breaks first, nudging Sutton with his elbow. “Should we take out the trash?”

  Both of them smile.

  Sutton and Matthew move toward me in slow motion as, behind them, Eric wrenches Ian to his feet, the white showing all around Ian’s eyes. Sutton and Matthew split, approaching me on either side.

  “Don’t touch me,” I say, and Matthew cocks his head, eyes narrowed.

  “You know you want it. Everyone knows all about you and that foster dad of yours.” He takes two steps closer, and on the other side of me, Sutton lunges. Instinctively, I shy backward and crash into Matthew’s chest. He wraps one arm around my torso, twists both of us around, and shoves me through the bathroom door.

  I land on my hands and knees, palms skidding across the black-and-white tile. I sweep my legs under me, ready to jump to my feet, and something heavy knocks me down again.

  Matthew. I can’t breathe. Too heavy. Too—I jam my elbows backward and connect with his knees

  “Bitch,” he mutters, and flips me. My shoulders hit the floor and his hand circles my throat, tightening until I can’t gasp.

  I claw his face and Matthew jerks out of reach. His eyes dip lower and his other hand follows. It creeps along my skin with spider legs.

  “No!” I stamp both feet into the floor, kicking myself up and unseating him. “Stop!”

  “Say please.” His words are singsong, and when I don’t respond, his fingers snag the bottom of my T-shirt, pulling it up and exposing skin that suddenly burns.

  “Stop it!”

  “I will if you say please.”

  “No.”

  Matthew’s smile promises mayhem. “Say it,” he hisses, taking a fistful of my jeans now, touching me like he owns me and I’m here with him instead of floating above us. I’m here and not here as, somewhere very far away, Ian whimpers and I swallow and Matthew’s horrible smile blurs as I watch some other Wick say, “Please.”