Remember Me

by Bernard,Romily

  While the prosecuting attorney presents the DUI case they’re about to try, I work on accessing Bay’s BlackBerry. It takes me a few minutes before I can pick up his cell remotely—gotta love it when someone’s logged on to a public WiFi—and start working through his in-box. Work stuff . . . work stuff . . . dentist appointment reminder . . . calendar invitations . . . more work stuff. Bay’s campaign manager sent a list of last election’s top donors, and, surprisingly, Lauren’s parents are in the top three. Other than that, there’s nothing.

  Until I get to the very bottom.

  Almost a week ago, Bay received an email confirmation from Barton & Moore Security detailing his recent order. From the looks of it, the judge has gone all out: security cameras, motion detectors, and panic buttons in the bedrooms. He’s seriously freaked and that’s a serious problem for me.

  It doesn’t say anything about beefing up the family’s internet security, but considering it’s Barton & Moore, they’ll have something in mind for that as well. I scroll down, skimming the rest of the email for anything else that’s going to make my life harder, and that’s when I see it. The entire email chain between the security firm and Bay started with a single email sent to Bay’s personal account. The sender used a Yahoo! email address and there’s no subject, just two words that make my skin prickle:

  Remember Me

  Same words that were carved onto the dead girl’s chest. Within two minutes of receiving the message, Bay had forwarded it to his contact at Barton & Moore. Interesting. Apparently, whatever he’s supposed to remember upset him.

  As I watch, another email comes through. Barton & Moore again. This time, they’re confirming security guards will be arriving tonight. Understandable, considering the murder.

  It doesn’t explain why the whole security upgrade started a week ago though, well before the death.

  Unless Bay suspected something like that might happen.

  To my right, someone slides down and turns in my direction. I watch the figure from the corner of my eye, and when it starts to slide closer, I minimize Bay’s in-box and pull up a Word document.

  “You working on Farenstein’s report?”

  Ian Bay. I turn slowly to face him and he’s closer than I would like. Much closer.

  “Yeah, I am,” I say, and have to arrange my features so I don’t look so confused. Ian is a weird hybrid at our school. He’s too clumsy to be athletic, too knife-faced to be good-looking, but I guess money gives him a pass because he hangs around the popular kids.

  Actually, I should say he tries to hang around the popular kids. I don’t think many of them actually like him.

  “You working on the report too?” I ask.

  “Already finished it.” He nods in his dad’s direction, a fringe of dark hair falling across his forehead. “Kind of the family business.”

  Yeah, no shit. But I smile like that’s a brilliant observation on Ian’s part and that makes Ian smile wider.

  “So I’ve been seeing you around more, Wick.”

  Huh? I’ve been around. Ian and I have attended the same schools for the past five years. I watched him lose his mom to cancer, heard about his dad getting remarried, and his older brother, Kyle, running off with some chick. I know about him the way everyone around Peachtree City knows about him . . . and me, I guess. There are rumors. People talk. But dead moms and dysfunctional families are everyday news. It’s Ian’s dad who makes it special, makes him special. Anyway, it’s highly unlikely he hasn’t seen me.

  Then I notice the way Ian’s eyes inch over my hair. Usually, it’s purple or pink or, more recently, Kool-Aid red. Right now it’s blond.

  Like the girls I see him following around at school.

  Suddenly, the way Ian was staring at me last night and the way he’s staring at me right now start to make sense.

  Can I throw up?

  I try to scoot sideways, run into the end of the bench. “I guess I’ve been getting out more.”

  “Yeah, must be hard going around town with your mom and all.”

  I stiffen. My mom. This time, the word means Bren. “Why would it be hard?”

  “Well, you know, because of . . .” Ian lifts one shoulder, eyes rolling in his head because I’m supposed to get the implication and play along.

  And I’m not.

  “No, I don’t know.” I stuff my laptop into my bag, tug the strap onto my shoulder. I want a copy of that Remember Me email, but not enough to risk it with the judge’s kid sitting next to me. “Bren has nothing to hide.”

  Ian blinks. “Oh, yeah, agreed. I mean, of course. I wasn’t saying—”

  Yes, you were. I edge around him, make my way to the rear of the courtroom and head for the parking lot exit. I’m barely into the hallway though before Ian’s stepping on my heels.

  “Look, Wick, sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.” He grabs my elbow and I round on him, fist clenched. Ian shies away, shrinking into the wall, and, to my right and left, people start to stare.

  Dammit.

  “Don’t grab me,” I whisper.

  “Because of . . . ?”

  My mouth drops open. Because of Todd? I’m suddenly sorry I didn’t punch Ian right in the ear. “Because it’s rude.”

  And yes, because of Todd.

  “Oh. Right. Sorry.” Ian’s cheeks go My Little Pony pink, and even though I’m irritated with him, I start to feel bad. It’s not like he’s a threat. We probably wear the same jeans size. Besides, most people probably wouldn’t have a problem with their elbow getting touched.

  Which, technically, makes me the freak.

  Sigh. I need to apologize.

  “Look,” Ian says. “I wanted to ask if we could partner on that computer lab project.”

  “You’re not in my class.”

  “I know. I’m in Mrs. Lowe’s fifth period. She’s okay with it if you’re okay with it.”

  I stifle a groan. Why the hell would our teacher say that? No way do I want team up with Ian Bay. Not only is there the whole “I’m investigating his dad” thing, there’s also the problem that two geeks are easier to target than one.

  I fly under the radar at school, avoiding anyone who might toss me in the Dumpster (don’t ask). Ian tries to fit in. He follows the popular kids around, hoping they’ll eventually warm to him. It should disgust me, the way he begs for their attention, but . . .

  I heave an enormous sigh. I hate when people pity me, but right now, that’s all I feel for him. “Are you sure you shouldn’t partner with someone else? I mean, we would have to write the report after school instead of during class and, with everything you have going on . . .”

  “That’s kind of the thing.” Ian rubs the back of his hand against his nose, making him look like an overgrown kid. “I don’t really want to be home right now and I’m pretty much bombing that class. I thought it was going to be way easier and, you know . . .” He shrugs, stuffing both hands into his jeans pockets. I think he’s trying for nonchalant. It’s coming off as pitiful.

  I will be a total idiot if I agree.

  So why can’t I force myself to say no?

  Because I understand what it’s like to not want to go home. Because I understand what it’s like to be buried.

  Because I am that total idiot.

  “Okay, fine.” Even though the agreement emerges in a snarl, Ian’s eyes go bright. “Email me at this address and I’ll send you my notes.” I scribble my personal email onto a piece of scrap paper and pass it to him. He pockets it.

  “Thanks, Wick.”

  “No big deal,” I say, turning to leave, and, thankfully, Ian doesn’t follow me. I make it to the parking lot by myself. Where I see Griff leaning on my car.

  It kicks the air right out of me.

  “Hey,” he says, peeling himself up.

  “Hey.” I unlock my car door, grip it with both hands so I don’t reach for him. I am not going to be that desperate.

  Even if I’m scared I already am.

  “How d
id you know I was here?” I ask.

  “Bren told me. I wanted to apologize. For last night. I get it.”

  He doesn’t. I can see it in the line of his shoulders, how they tense at the words. He’s faking.

  “It’s okay.” I’m nodding too hard, can’t seem to stop. “I understand. You were just upset.”

  Griff’s eyes spear mine. “You don’t have to make excuses for me.”

  I do because that would mean the alternative is Griff not understanding the situation—not understanding me.

  “So.” He shifts from foot to foot, studying the thunderclouds gathering on the horizon. “How did it go?”

  I hesitate, still hearing the way he said I was enjoying the job. “It’s not going that great. I was able to get into Bay’s personal email. It’s going to take some more digging.”

  Griff nods. “You’ll need another computer.”

  “Oh! Yeah, no problem. Do you need yours?” I go for the laptop and Griff’s hand circles my arm.

  “No, no, it’s just, you’ll need something faster—like what you had before.”

  I scowl. “I don’t think PD’s returning mine anytime soon.”

  In one of Carson’s earlier attempts to trap me, he talked Todd into giving him my computer, told my foster dad it was for my own protection, and the detective still has it. The thought of forensic computer specialists going through my hard drive gives me serious terror sweats.

  It’s not that I wasn’t careful, I was. I am, but all it takes is an undeleted keystroke, a partially remaining file. Used to be I had to worry about what I’d done. Now I have to worry about what I’ve missed.

  Back then all I could think about was how I had to catch the man who was stalking my sister. I would have been dead in the water if it wasn’t for Griff. He gave me the laptop I used to trap Todd.

  Griff’s right though. I do need something else. “Problem is,” I begin, “my old builder won’t touch me anymore.”

  After Todd was arrested and the newspapers hailed me as a hero, my builder freaked and went underground. He said there was too much attention surrounding me. I figured his paranoia would pass. It hasn’t and that’s kind of left me up the creek.

  I know it sounds weird. If you’re into coding and computers, you should be able to build a decent system, right? Not so much. Software hackers, people like me, do software not hardware. Yeah, I know how to build a basic computer with off-the-shelf parts. The problem is what I want—what I need—requires a specialist.

  Griff nods. “I know your guy went under. Thought you could use mine instead.”

  “You have someone?”

  “Yeah.” Griff edges a little closer and his hand—stained with faded blue ink—cradles my jawline . . . my cheek. His thumb grazes my lower lip and we both swallow. Hard.

  “That would be amazing, Griff. I really appreciate it. Thank you.”

  Jesus. Could I sound any stiffer? I want this thing between us fixed and I don’t know how to do it. Do I kiss him and apologize? Or do I just kiss him?

  Maybe it’s because of the DVD or maybe it’s just because this is my first boyfriend, but I keep thinking about how my mom tried to fix things with my dad. She did it wrong. I wanted to do it better.

  And I’m not.

  “I want you to be safe,” Griff says. “My guy is . . . a bit of a dick. He’s good though. Really good.”

  I nod, sounds fine to me, but there’s something about the way Griff offered his builder that makes me think he kinda sorta wants me to say no.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, hoping he hears the are we okay? hovering underneath.

  “Yeah. ’Course.” Griff shrugs, watching his fingers trace across my skin. His touch is so light and it makes my stomach feel so liquid and heavy. “It’s just that, when I thought about being with you . . . this isn’t how I pictured it.”

  I force a smile, lean into his hand.

  That makes two of us.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  Griff follows me home, leaving his bike at my house so we can head to Five Points in the Mini. The clouds above us have turned the pale cream of baseball leather, promising better weather to come, but traffic is slow. It takes us almost an hour to reach downtown Atlanta, and when we finally turn down the last side street, I’m sure Griff is screwing with me.

  “This is it,” he says, motioning to the squat building on our left. Usually computer specialists work out of storefronts or their houses and we’re turning in to an abandoned restaurant that looks like something out of The Walking Dead.

  “You take me to the nicest places,” I joke, negotiating around an enormous pothole. I’m trying for funny. Griff doesn’t even crack a smile. His eyes are pinned to the caving-in front awning and the man in a hoodie standing under it.

  “Is that your builder?” I ask, and Griff shakes his head, mouth set.

  “No.”

  We park and get out, Griff coming around to my side before I can even shut my door. “Hey, I have a confession,” he says. “I had to tell him who you really were.”

  I stiffen and Griff sweeps his hands down my arms. “He doesn’t take new clients, but I knew he was a fan of your work so . . .”

  I force a smile. “It’s okay.”

  Only it’s kind of not. I’m careful to keep my hacking life separate from my real life. Griff’s one of the few people who knows both and he gave me away. As soon as I think it, though, I smother the thought. Griff did this to help me with something he doesn’t even want any part of.

  I close my hand around Griff’s and squeeze, following him across the parking lot. Up under the restaurant’s awning, the hoodie guy starts to pace. The closer we get, the harder his feet stab into the sidewalk.

  “What do you want?” he demands, voice creaky and rusted, a box lid unused to opening.

  “Looking for Milo Gray,” Griff says, easing sideways so I have to peer around him. “He here?”

  “Maybe.” The guy moves toward us. This close, his eyes are an ashy gray like whatever’s inside him is burning its way to the surface.

  Homeless. Maybe high. He doesn’t look well. His skin is the color of overcreamed coffee and his clothes are stained and rumpled. The stench is enough to make my eyes water.

  “Who are you?” He’s talking to me now and it makes Griff stiffen.

  “Wick,” I say.

  He mouths my name, twitches, and Griff’s breath stalls. I curve my hand around his forearm. It’s okay. It’s okay.

  Then suddenly it’s not.

  The guy lunges at me and I duck, stumbling back and lashing out with my fist. I connect with his throat. He coughs hard and goes to his knees.

  “Hey!” Another voice—a guy’s—comes from my left. I jerk sideways and the newcomer lunges forward, ripping past me to crouch by the guy. He nearly gets flattened for his efforts though. The man leaps up and takes off.

  Leaving the new guy to round on me. He surges forward, shoving me into the restaurant’s wall. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Wick Tate.” I start to knee him in the groin and he twists sideways, swearing. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Milo Gray.” His hands loosen and he moves back a step. “World’s greatest builder.”

  “Who was that?” Griff asks. Outside the restaurant, the storm has regrouped. Rain bleeds down the dusty windows in veins.

  Milo studies Griff. “No one that concerns you.”

  “That’s because it was your dad, wasn’t it?” Both boys pivot to stare at me and I pretend to straighten my shirtsleeve so I can cradle my throbbing arm. “Attached earlobes. It runs in families, right? So maybe he’s your dad or really older brother?”

  “Dad.” Now Milo studying me. His eyes linger and I shiver. Griff’s guy doesn’t look like a techie . . . he looks like some sort of surfer boy: dark hair, dark eyes, worn black T-shirt stretched across a g
ym-sculpted chest, and tribal tats curling up his forearms.

  “You didn’t tell me she was going to be in danger if I brought her here,” Griff says.

  “And you didn’t tell me who she really was. You said you were bringing me Red Queen, not . . .” Milo’s attention never swerves from me. Slowly, the side of his mouth quirks up. “So what should I call you? Wick? Or Red Queen?”

  I try to smile. Can’t. My face has gone tight. Red Queen is one of aliases I use online and, generally, my best known. “Wick’s fine.”

  “You got it . . . but how do I know you’re the Red Queen? How do I know you’re the one who came up with the Pandora code?”

  “Well, if I could just borrow a computer . . .”

  “No way you’re touching my gear.” Milo’s tongue taps the corner of his mouth. “Tell me about how you nailed Walker Internet Securities.”

  I flinch. It was probably some of the best work I ever did for Joe. I meet Milo’s gaze and refuse to think about what Griff must be thinking . . . or about the shame heating my face. “So their CEO was way paranoid; getting into the company’s systems was impossible. They’d thought of everything . . . except for their cable boxes. They were running this old version of BSD, which meant I had my pick of vulnerabilities. After a few directory traversal attacks, I was able to access every internet and wireless device in the office. By using an XSS vulnerability in the HTML firewall log I was able to install a malicious JavaScript packet that would look for various password and configuration files and, if found, send them back to me. When the CEO viewed the firewall log the next morning, the XSS had launched, and we ended up with the company’s enterprise-wide root password. Pretty much full access to passwords, source codes, credit card numbers . . . I also set every channel in his cable box to Disney.”

  Milo’s eyes flicker. “Say it again, but this time, do it in a breathy voice.”

  “Pervert.”

  He grins, his teeth werewolf white against his darker skin. “I’ve been following you for years. Never thought we’d meet. Or that you’d be . . .” Milo’s gaze climbs down me. It should feel dirty, only, somehow, it’s more like he’s assessing me in terms of my jobs. And he’s impressed.