Trust Me

by Romily Bernard

  I wince. It’s another delaying tactic. When Bren finally gets here, she’ll wait and wait, never knowing Griff’s unconscious body is only a few strides away.

  Griff keeps his eyes on me as he backs into the waist-deep grass. “This far enough for you?” he asks finally.

  “Watch your tone.” Michael flicks the grass bits from his hands. “It’ll do. Come here, Wick.”

  I turn, take an uneven breath, and force myself forward. One step. Two steps. There’s the most awful thud behind me and immediately a rush of grass as Griff hits the ground.

  Michael extends one hand, palm up. “Cell.”

  I give it to him. Michael pops the battery off the back and smiles at me as he pitches the pieces in two different directions. “Now we don’t have to worry about being interrupted.”

  Or being saved.

  “See how pleasant things can be when you cooperate?” Michael grins and I follow him to the car.

  We leave Peachtree City by back roads. Michael drives. Martin sits behind me, keeping the gun trained on the back of my head. I try to concentrate on the passing houses and cars instead, but I don’t recognize any of the surroundings. Thanks to the navigation system, I can tell we’re headed south, but beyond that it’s just long stretches of darkness punctured by random porch lights. I have no idea where we’re going, but then the car’s headlights hit a reflective green sign and I have to press both feet into the floorboard. “Are you taking me to the airport?”

  Michael makes a left, maneuvering us down a long, paved drive. “Aren’t you the smart one?”

  Not nearly smart enough. I can’t think past the whistling in my head. I put both hands in my lap, twisting my fingers together. It’s one thing to drive me somewhere. It’s totally different to fly. Griff won’t find me. By the time he wakes up, I could be halfway across the country.

  So what am I going to do? Run for it?

  Impractical. We’re at least two miles off the main road and the woods will slow me down. Even if I did reach the road, the likelihood of flagging down a car is pretty much nil so that leaves . . .

  Hell if I know.

  It’s a small airport—we’re passing mostly private planes, puddle-jumper stuff. Michael drives us to the tarmac’s far end and parks by the very last hangar.

  “Get out,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt.

  I fumble with mine. My fingers have gone numb. All of me has gone numb. Michael keeps one hand on my arm as Martin walks away, heading into the darkened hangar. We follow and my eyes adjust slowly. I can see shapes on either side of us. Boxes? Equipment?

  Farther ahead, it’s easier to see what’s waiting under the moonlight: a plane.

  I don’t understand. Is Michael escaping for good? If he is, why would he take me with him?

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “To talk.”

  “About what?” I turn and it’s a mistake. Michael’s in my space now, breathing the same air. He traces one finger along my cheekbone and I struggle not to shudder.

  “All this time,” he says softly. “They told you I wanted to kill you, right? That you were mine? That I knew you had the money and I would come for you?”

  I nod. I’d forgotten the sound of his voice, how smooth it was, how every word felt like the promise you’d always wanted. He used that voice with addicts looking for a fix and with my mother when she was looking for an escape.

  “Norcut and Hart were half right,” Michael continues. He pulls me deeper into the hangar by my elbow. We walk just outside of the moonlight as Martin jogs back and forth ahead of us, readying the plane. “I was coming for you. You are mine. You aren’t just my daughter. You’re my creation, my right hand. But I knew you didn’t have the money.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Because I did.”

  “You have the money?”

  He smiles. “Aside from that minor lapse with your sister, I’ve always had the money. I stole it months and months ago—just before my first arrest. Why do you think Norcut was always so quick to keep any appointment with you? Why do you think Carson stayed so close to you and your sister?”

  “Because he wanted to arrest you.”

  Michael gives me a pitying look. “Or is that just what he told you? I didn’t expect for your sister to find the money, but thankfully, I knew exactly where she would put it so I waited. Then I took it back from your account. I needed to panic them. Fear makes for an easier target and I knew the dear doctor was seriously terrified when she started having my old contacts killed.”

  “They were going to kill me over that money.” I take a deep breath, smelling fuel and oil. “If I don’t deliver, they’ll kill Lily and Bren. You have to return it.”

  “No, I don’t. By the time I’m finished, there won’t be a Looking Glass. I created it and I can destroy it and they know that. They fear me.”

  “You created Looking Glass?”

  Michael shrugs. “What did that bitch tell you? That I worked for her? Bay found us clients. Norcut found children with the right skills and Carson handled security. Eventually, Hart became the face of Looking Glass. He has that . . . approachable look people love so much. Hart helped Bay find the right companies to hire us and I test-drove several of our”—Michael grins, his teeth flashing in the moonlight—“sales pitches? You remember that last scam before I was arrested?”

  My stomach squeezes. “Yeah, we were asking people for donations and then stealing their credit card information.”

  “And it worked beautifully. We took money from the marks and then we took money from the credit card company.”

  “You mean you sold the credit card company a solution to a problem you created. They never realized they were paying the people who ripped off their clients in the first place.”

  “Nicely done, wasn’t it?”

  I stare at the plane waiting for us on the tarmac, force my heartbeats to slow. I’ve been working for Looking Glass for years, I just never realized it.

  “All this time,” I say, dragging my head up to meet his eyes. “All this time when Carson was chasing you, it wasn’t because of the drugs or the credit card scams. It was because of Looking Glass. It was because of the money.”

  Michael nods. “They wanted to cut me out and he made it happen. Or he tried. Carson was supposed to tip me off about that raid and he didn’t. He thought—they all thought—by catching me in the thick of it, I would go away for a very, very long time. One less person to split the profits with.”

  The raid. The one Griff kept me from, the one where Joe and Michael were caught, and I thought my father was gone for good.

  There’s a sharp clang behind us as Martin unhooks the plane’s tie-downs and flings them to the tarmac. Michael’s watching him, but his eyes are glazy. “Then Norcut sicced Carson on Bay. And what a beautiful job you did on that judge for the good detective too. Well done. Would’ve worked out beautifully for Carson if Norcut and Hart hadn’t turned on him, gotten that boy of hers to plant those bombs. He must’ve been desperate for leverage when he tried to kidnap you. Something to remember here, Wick. You can’t trust anyone except yourself . . . and me.”

  “Then why were you chasing me?”

  “Because we’re family. We’re supposed to be together.” His grin is boyish and sickly in the pale light. “Yes, I was pursuing you, but I never wanted to kill you. Ever.”

  “Throwing me around was what then? Because you love me?”

  The smile drains from his face. “Because I want you to become the person you’re meant to be. I saw what was in you at an early, early age. I saw what you would be capable of, but it wasn’t until you asked me to kill someone that I knew you were ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “To join me.”

  41

  Join me. Michael says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world and maybe it is. Maybe it’s always been. Fighting against who I am is what got me here, isn’t it?

  I study him, look at h
is suit . . . his shoes . . . his car. Even with the pretty clothes and the prettier vehicle, he still looks rough. In the dark, Michael’s blond, short-cropped hair is almost impossible to see, turning his head into a skull, his cheekbones into pits.

  “You think I should join you because I lashed back at Joe?” I ask at last.

  “Ah-ah.” He wags a finger at me. “Be specific. You had me kill him. You knew what you were asking.”

  “I had to save Lily. He was going to hurt her to get to me.”

  Michael nods. “Absolutely. Love is leverage, Wick. Joe understood it. Carson understood it. Norcut and Hart understand it. But look how that worked for them. Look what I’ve done for you. I’ve moved worlds for us and I would do more too. That woman who adopted you, she can’t give you what I can.”

  I stare, feeling like I’m seeing Michael for the very first time. Is that . . . jealousy? He’s watching me now too, and even though his eyes are smudged with dark circles, they’re still as blue as I remember them.

  Michael and I have the same eyes, the same hair. We are so alike in so many ways.

  But it doesn’t matter anymore.

  There has to be another way for me. My entire life everyone has told me who I am: I am my mother’s daughter. I am my father’s right hand. I’m not decent. I will never be decent.

  They told me evil’s in my blood and I believed them. I acted like it was my destiny, but it was my choice. My choice. I didn’t make it before. I could now. Maybe, just maybe, it isn’t about what I’ve done, but what I’m capable of doing.

  If I let myself.

  Michael’s palm curves against my face and my stomach threatens to heave into my mouth. His eyes inch across my face. Can he tell he makes me sick? Can he tell I’m horrified?

  “You used to flinch whenever I touched you,” he whispers and there’s something awful underneath his words. It sounds like awe. “But you don’t anymore. You are stronger than I ever believed. Aren’t you tired of being everyone else’s weapon, Wick?”

  “Yes.” And I’m telling him the truth because suddenly I understand how lies aren’t the only things that can protect you. I know who I am now. That’s going to have to save me.

  “Then stop letting them use you,” Michael says and his fingers dig into my cheek, finding the soft spot beneath my eye. “Take control, and come with me.”

  “No.”

  Somewhere outside the hangar, Martin slams a door shut. Michael leans in close. “Are you sure? I want you to think very carefully, Wick, because there is only one right answer here.”

  I shudder even as pity chews through me. For all my father’s talk of love, he will never understand it. “I am not a thing to own.”

  Michael’s fingers arch into claws, igniting my skin with pain.

  “It’s ready.” Martin appears at the hangar’s opening, one hand against the metal frame . . . the other hand pointing his gun at us. At me. “We need to go.”

  “A minute,” Michael says, digging in further. My vision blurs and I blink away tears.

  “We don’t have—”

  Pop! Pop!

  Martin’s knees hit the concrete and his body slumps forward, splays flat. Michael drops his hand and we both shrink away. Blood seeps from underneath Martin, expanding in an ever-widening pool, and all I can think is: Martin’s been shot.

  And immediately afterward: They’re using silencers. This isn’t just catching us. It’s an execution.

  Pop! Pop!

  I throw both arms over my head as bullets hit the metal siding. Something next to me shatters and I duck.

  “Run!” Michael shoves me toward the hangar’s other end. “Get to the car!”

  I spin around and take off, my sneakers slapping against the concrete. Behind us, someone yells and someone else answers.

  Two of them. There are at least two of them.

  Pop!

  I jerk to the right and my hip collides with a sharp corner—table? Can’t tell. I stagger sideways and Michael gives me another shove. “Go!”

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Something heavy collides with my lower back. I make it one step, two steps. Down. I’m down. Am I hit? Both hands skid in front of me, both knees stutter against the concrete, and I twist, ready to wiggle to my feet.

  But Michael wrestles me to the floor.

  My spine hits concrete. My head follows. There’s a starburst of pain and I start swinging. I get in a hit to his face and one to his ear. Michael hisses and clocks me, catching my right temple and spraying colors behind my eyelids.

  “Stop it!” He shakes me hard and pries open my fist. Something scrapes my palm. Paper?

  “Take it,” he hisses and I thrash. I slam the heel of my other hand into his nose, feel it crack. Blood spatters my cheeks and Michael rears up, grabbing his face with both hands.

  Pop!

  Michael shouts, grabs his arm. His face is anguished and astonished and so very red.

  I gape . . . gape . . . kick to my feet, feel the swipe of his fingers against my ankle.

  Only helps me run faster.

  I lift my knees and hit another box, have to splay both arms wide to keep from toppling. I stab one hand against the wall and keep going.

  Almost there.

  I can see the car! I can see the car!

  I’m nearly to it when I realize Michael’s not following me and I’m already in the driver’s seat when I see him stagger from the hangar . . . and waver.

  Two more flashes of light from inside. Two more shots.

  And he falls.

  For a heartbeat, I hesitate. I’m gasping and gasping and I still can’t get enough air. They shot him. Michael’s down.

  He’s down.

  There’s a roaring in my head now and I jerk the driver’s door shut, slap my palms across the dash, leaving sticky, bloody prints. Michael’s paper scrap unglues, flutters to the floorboard.

  I grope along the console. Nothing. Nothing. Noth—keys!

  I jam them into the ignition and jerk the car onto the road, flooring it. I keep both hands on the wheel and my eyes straight ahead. I don’t trust myself to look back . . . but I do stray once. I check my rearview mirror and I recognize the man standing in the road behind me.

  It’s Hart.

  Eventually, I stop in the darkest corner of a Winn-Dixie parking lot, check my bad arm, feel the rest of me. I’m in one piece, but why is the front of my T-shirt so wet?

  Carefully—slowly—I open the car door and push to my feet. It’s kind of amazing when the world doesn’t wobble. I’m steadier than I expected. I stand in front of the headlights and survey the damage.

  The front of my shirt and shorts are damp with blood, but it’s not mine.

  It’s Michael’s. The thought is so far away it feels like someone else’s whisper. When he hit me from behind, it must’ve been because he was shot.

  Then they got him in the arm . . . and then I remember the two flashes of light.

  They killed him. My father’s dead.

  I rub a cold, sweaty palm across my face, smell the oil and dirt on my hands. It makes my breath catch again and I have to remind myself to stop, to think.

  But all I can think about is this: Everyone’s gone. Joe . . . Michael . . . Carson . . . every tie to my past is gone. The only thing left standing between me and the rest of my life is Looking Glass. I need to take care of that, but how? They’re expecting me. They’ll see me coming, and if I don’t move against them, they’ll move against me.

  Someone’s going down, and considering Looking Glass’s resources, it’s a pretty good bet that someone will be me.

  “I’m finished,” I whisper, trying the words aloud. It actually helps. A little. “So what am I going to do about that? I need a plan . . . I need a plan . . .”

  I don’t have a plan.

  I wish I still had my cell. I’d give anything to call Bren right now or to hear Griff’s voice.

  I climb into the car again and something crinkles under my foot. I peer
down at the floorboard and see something next to my sneaker, something like . . . paper?

  Yeah, it’s paper. And suddenly, I remember Michael shoving something into my hand. It’s a note—definitely a little worse for wear now. There’s dried blood on the bottom and one corner is torn. I fold down the edges and angle the writing to catch the overhead light. It’s four lines of numbers and twenty-one numbers per line. If I had to take a guess, it’s four bank accounts.

  Presumably, Michael’s bank accounts.

  He wanted me to have them.

  I don’t know what to make of that so I stare at the numbers instead. I stare until they swim together. I think of the SD card Michael secured for me, how I could take down Looking Glass. I think of the bank accounts.

  I think of the money.

  With enough money, you can disappear. I know that. Of all people, I know that so well. I could threaten Looking Glass with what I have and then I could get Bren, Lily, and Griff and we could run. They’d never find us. I could make sure of that.

  I take the SD card from my pocket and roll it around in my palm, all of Michael’s carefully curated leverage. My leverage now. It’s the only thing standing between them and me and Michael made sure I had it.

  He took care of me. This was his legacy, and his love, and he knew I would know what to do with this. He knew I was ready.

  And I am ready because, suddenly, I know what I’m going to do, what I have to do.

  I put the SD card onto the console between the front seats and tuck the paper with Michael’s account numbers under it. I’m ready, but it still takes me a minute or two before I can put the car in drive. Once upon a time, Griff told me you can’t save everyone, but if you’re lucky, you can save one person. I’ve saved my sister, Bren, even Griff, and by giving me this money and leverage, Michael saved me. I don’t know what to do with that, but I do know what I have to do next.

  Maybe I’ve always known.

  But do I really have the courage to do it?

  “Yes,” I tell myself, and tug the gearshift down. The car purrs forward. I keep one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on the paper as I turn onto the main road. I head north. I don’t stop and the moon is low in the sky when I pull into the parking lot.