All because of me.
All because he was trying to protect me.
“You go after him,” I say. “And I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” Go public? Can’t, I would hurt Bren and Lily. “Do not underestimate me, Carson. I will use that virus. You won’t be able to explain your way around it. It will destroy you.”
The detective’s smile evaporates. “I bet it would. Even with me out of the picture, it still wouldn’t help him. I turn in that video, you activate that virus. Doesn’t matter. Griff’ll still be prosecuted. Think that fancy art school will want him with a record?”
“No.” The word emerges soft and round and nothing like me. When Griff was picturing his life, it was never like this.
And it’s my fault.
Carson’s staring at me with the smile usually reserved for newspaper columnists and mothers with babies. “So congrats, Wick, you outsmarted me. You’re free. Too bad I’m just going to use him instead.”
“Please don’t.”
“Then offer me something better.”
How? If I offer myself, Carson will accept and Griff will go free . . . and then I’ll still be working for Carson after I told Griff I was done.
He won’t forgive me.
I listen for the shuffle of Griff’s sneakers in the kitchen, but there’s nothing, and when I sneak a glance, I realize Griff’s not moving because he’s watching me. His eyes meet mine and he smiles. I have to force myself not to wince.
Can I give myself back to Carson to save him? Without a single doubt.
It would destroy us. I know it would and that’s what’s so scary because I would still do it. In less than a heartbeat.
I can’t decide if that admission makes me cold.
Or maybe I’m just pathetic because, if I lose Griff, I have no idea how I’m supposed to live with that.
“Nothing? No offers?” Carson tucks his arm behind his head, slouching down as he starts running the video over and over again. “Then we’re done, trash. You’re free. Also? If I find out you told him about the tape before I do, I’ll go public with it, understand?”
Another threat. Pointless really. If I tell Griff about the tape, he’ll want to steal it and I’ll want to help and Carson will be expecting us. Whatever we did would only make things worse.
It almost makes me want to laugh. Carson owns me more now than he did before.
“Don’t touch him,” I say. “Leave Griff alone and you can have me. I’ll work for you, but you have to promise never to touch him.”
Carson looks up, eyes alight. I’ve just given him exactly what he wanted. Now he just has to give me what I want.
I swallow. “If I do this . . . how do I know you’ll leave him alone?”
“You think he’s any use to me?” The detective leans forward. “You do what I want, I’ll stay away from him.”
“And the tape?”
“Help me close this case and I’ll give it to you.”
Or I’ll take it. I nod. “It’s a deal.”
“I’m going to make you a hero, trash—in spite of that bad blood of yours. Think of losing Griff as a growing pain.” He cocks his head, studying me with the keen, questioning eyes that belong to addicts or pit bulls. “That boy’ll never forgive you for working for me again.”
No. He won’t.
Carson leans forward, pats my hand. The gesture’s so awkward, it feels borrowed. He’s slipping into Good Cop again. “Even if Griff doesn’t, you were never going to stay together anyway, Wick. I’ve seen the way he looks at you when we work together.”
I stiffen. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
“It’s like he can barely believe what’s coming out of your mouth. He can’t reconcile his pretty, lost princess with the criminal standing in front of him. This was destined to be messy. It was always going to end badly.”
I look away. I hate admitting when Carson’s right.
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I fake it the whole way home. Everything is fine. The future looks great. We’re together.
At first I’m proud I can maintain the lie . . . then I realize of course I can. Lying is what I do best, isn’t it?
“Do you want to come in?” I ask after we pull into the driveway. Griff nods hard, his smile suddenly too big for his face. I play with my house keys because I don’t want to see it, definitely don’t want to remember it.
Too late.
We check the house together. Windows, doors, security system, they’re all exactly as I left them. Should make me feel safe. Instead, it just feels like a reprieve.
Kyle is still loose. Jason still knows I’m snitching. Carson . . . I still work for Carson. And, for a second, I think I’m going to start crying all over again.
Since Bren and Lily are out, we go to the kitchen. Him telling me about an artists’ club he’s joined at school. Me counting tiles so I know precisely how far away I have to stay to do this.
“Griff? We need to talk.” A cliché, but the best I can do. I don’t look at him. “I’ve decided to keep working for Carson.”
There’s a long pause, and into it I fit everything I want to say and can’t: Carson has a recording of you breaking into the courthouse, I’m doing this to save you, I love you, and I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.
Griff leans one hip against the counter. “Why?”
Yes. Why? The words I need dissolve in my hands. “Why not?”
“Because you hate it.”
I take a shaky breath, wince when his palm snares mine. “No. You hate it.”
“Yeah . . . I do. I don’t understand, Wick. Why’d you change your mind? Does this have something to do with . . .”
I tense. “What?”
“I don’t know.” Griff scowls. “Is it about Milo’s bullshit? How hackers should rule the world or whatever?”
“No.”
“Because he likes you. A lot. I can tell.”
I close my eyes, open them. I could use Milo to finish this. Griff would never suspect the real reasons.
“I hate how he looks at you,” Griff says slowly. I tug at my hand, but he doesn’t let go and I need him to. I can’t be this close when Griff starts looking at me like . . . like I’m me and not the girl he wanted.
The girl I wanted to be.
“I like him too,” I say. “We’re . . . the same kind of person, Griff.”
Just saying it aloud makes me realize it’s true.
Griff’s jaw tightens. “You’re right. I can’t keep up with you two.”
Because you’re better.
“Every time he looks at you,” Griff says, tracing the lines on my palm. “I want to beat his head into the pavement.”
I stare. He won’t meet my eyes and all I can hear is my breath, rattling past my lips. I don’t know what to say.
“I hate that about myself,” Griff continues, touching his fingertips to mine. “I never wanted to be that guy, but when I’m with you, I am.”
“I’m sorry.” It is fast and instant and I mean it. “I’m so sorry, Griff.”
“Don’t be.” His smile is fake, and when he lets me go, my hand goes cold. “It isn’t your fault. It’s mine. I can’t be like this. I think part of me always knew you would never quit. I knew I would have to walk away.”
No! Don’t! I’ll quit! I will do anything you ask! Everything I’m supposed to say and I don’t. Can’t.
“I’m sorry, Griff.”
“Liar.” He sounds proud of me though and something buried inside me shatters. “You love this. Tell me you don’t.”
I . . . can’t.
“This work.” Griff sighs, shaking his head. “It’s consuming you, Wick.”
Our eyes meet and I stiffen. He’s not thinking of the work. He’s thinking of how I fell apart and cried. He’s thinking I can’t handle it.
He might be right. A pang of an
xiety hits me low and spreads through my bones. Is this how he’s always seen me? How long has he felt like this? When I imagined this conversation . . . it never occurred to me that I would see another side of myself.
One that was even more loathsome than the person I thought I am.
Griff smiles, and this time it’s real. “You’re the most honest criminal I know, Wicked.”
He takes a cautious step toward me—because he can’t trust me? Or because he can’t trust himself? He touches my face with the backs of his fingers, runs his thumb over my lips. It drives delighted chills up my spine. My body responds to him like everything is the same.
Like nothing’s ruined.
His fingers find the hollow behind my ear, the blunted edge of my jaw. I lean into him and feel how my insides knock loose.
He can bury me alive.
Griff softly touches his lips to mine, a ghost kiss to say good-bye. It’s so damn fitting I want to scream.
“Good-bye, Wicked.” He pauses, waiting for me to say it back and I won’t. Maybe if I don’t, he won’t leave.
I can’t do this. I have to think of a way around Carson’s threat.
But Griff’s already walking away and I have to fight not to run after him. Just as well since I don’t think I’d make it two steps. His absence is immediate and heavy and I can’t breathe around it.
Griff slams the door and my knees hit the floor.
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The next day, I play sick. Actually . . . it’s not really playing. I don’t think I could get out of bed if I tried and the realization makes me to want to laugh until I puke. I am truly my mother’s daughter now.
Up on the nightstand, my phone vibrates. Another text. Lauren?
Carson.
He wants to meet day after tomorrow and I’ll need something good to give him.
I stare at my ceiling, weigh my options. The sniffer is working great if I’m interested in reviewing Bay’s work material or discovering what party his now dead assistant wanted him to attend. Other than that, it hasn’t been much good. Carson already has the pictures of Lell. So that leaves . . .
Norcut. I’m not super thrilled about pursuing her either. It hits awfully close to home since Bren has been taking Lily and me to the child psychiatrist for almost a year.
Hard to tell what her angle is though. Is she trying to help her onetime client? Or is she trying to help cover something up? I could find out. She has less security than Bay, which makes her an easier target.
Except that would mean using Milo, wouldn’t it? Finding a way into Norcut’s computer files from scratch would take time. Using Milo’s in . . . it could be a fast job. But that would require asking a favor from Milo.
Milo, who looks at me in a way that Griff hates.
Then again, that doesn’t matter anymore, does it?
It still takes me a few minutes to screw together the courage to call him though. I dial Milo’s number and it almost goes to voice mail before he picks up, his voice sleep-sticky. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
“Remember when you told me you could get into Norcut’s network?”
“Yeah.”
“I want to follow up on it.”
“Great.” There’s a rustling from the other end. Milo must be sitting up, throwing off the blankets. “I’ll meet you today. We’ll talk it through. I didn’t make it the easiest system to navigate.”
“No.” I run one hand over my face and realize my hair is sticking out everywhere. “No need. I already know how I want to work it. I’ll get into her office. I just need you to get me a distraction and her passwords so I have time to mess with the computer in her office.”
“Fine.” Milo sounds deflated. “I’ll do something with the security system. I’ll call you back tonight with details.”
I hang up and flip the phone onto the bed. Now for the rest of the plan.
I go downstairs and find Bren in her office, reviewing a contract as thick as my fist. “Bren?”
She looks up and her face creases into a smile. “Are you feeling better? How’s your head?”
“Not that great.” I try to arrange my features to look depressed. It’s not hard. “I think I need to see Dr. Norcut. Could you get me an appointment?”
Dr. Allison Norcut is one of the East Coast’s top child psychiatrists, with a waiting list that’s rumored to be three months out. I wouldn’t know. Any time Lily and I look sideways, Bren drags us in. And, sure enough, she’s able to get me in for an appointment for the following afternoon.
We pull into Norcut’s parking lot precisely ten minutes ahead of time, but because Bren is still on the phone with a client, we spend another five or six minutes sitting around.
Finally, when it looks like the guy on the other end is never going to shut up, Bren covers the cell’s mouthpiece with one hand. “Wick, honey, can you go inside without me? I promise I won’t be too long.”
I nod and get out, take the elevator to Norcut’s third-floor office. This late in the afternoon, it’s deserted. There’s only the office assistant manning the sleek front desk.
“Hi, Wicket,” Trina says, pulling off a headset that’s probably meant to look more Nicki Minaj than “Do you want fries with that?”
“You can go in,” she says. “Dr. Norcut will only be a few more minutes.”
“Thanks.” I smile, close the office door behind me. The psychiatrist’s tastes are a study in grays. Gray chairs. Gray carpet. Gray walls.
I drop onto a gravel-colored sofa pushed against a granite-colored wall and check my phone.
One. Lights go off. Backup generator turns on. I hunch into the cushions, watching the shadows flick back and forth underneath the door. Norcut and Trina are on the move and Norcut sounds pissed.
Two. Norcut asks Trina to get a handle on the situation and Trina say she’s trying. She sounds like she’s failing.
Three. The alarm system goes off and I launch myself across the room. Norcut’s keyboard is shiny clean (God, the woman’s predictable) but the keys are worn on the L, M, and N. The number keys to the right are worn on the 1, 5, 6, and 9.
I roll my eyes, unable to stop the grin. God, I love it when people never change their password. I key in Norcut’s initials, the password Milo gave me: ALN1965. The home screen populates.
Hot damn. I open her My Documents folder and skim through the file listing, where Norcut’s literal brain is a total windfall for me. It’s crazy easy to navigate. I click on the file marked Patients and scroll through the list.
BAY, KYLE is near the top.
I double click the folder and skim through the documents inside. Patient histories. Lots of them. Looks like Norcut scans her handwritten notes and saves them as PDFs. I don’t know what will be useful so I select the entire group and copy it to my jump drive. After the backup is complete, I scroll down and select the last file she added.
It’s dated the eleventh, four days before Kyle and Lell supposedly eloped, and talks all about his rage.
Patient highly agitated and convinced someone is following him. No amount of reason can sway him. He is unable to articulate why someone would follow him, but he is insistent that it’s happening.
Paranoia? That’s interesting. Outside, Norcut’s voice goes up another octave and I cut a quick look at the door. Not much more time. Kyle’s paranoia is definitely interesting. Doesn’t make him the killer though.
Both boys exhibit depression symptoms. May need to adjust Kyle’s medication dosage. Complaints of blackouts. Real or imaginary? Must speak with parents to confirm.
Both boys? I flip to My Documents again and check the file listing for Ian. There’s nothing. Was he a patient? It doesn’t look like it. Then again, it’s not like I’ve found everything Norcut has. She could have filed Ian somewhere else. Why keep Kyle here? And how do the parents figure in? Kyle’s
mom would’ve been undergoing chemo treatments at this point. Was she supportive?
Will recommend an in-patient therapy program for long term. I have serious concerns about the upcoming reelection. The pressures in the current environment could prove to be too great. He could relapse. Or worse.
Several family members support a long-term psychiatric solution. The mother, in particular, feels it’s necessary and she mentioned several times that her husband’s assistant feels the same. They’re afraid.
Of Kyle. Interesting—even more interesting that Chelsea recommended Kyle be put away and now she’s dead. Could the murders be about revenge? What if “remember me” is a question and a command? Remember who you put away. Remember me.
Because my head is filled with Kyle, I don’t hear the door. It opens with the faintest whoosh against the carpet and I have just enough time to double tap CTRL, ALT, DEL, sending the computer into a full reboot. I spin around, ready to say . . . something.
But it isn’t Dr. Norcut standing in the doorway.
It’s Bren.
“Get away from the computer,” she whispers and, for a second, I think I’ve misunderstood. This is wrong. Bren should be pissed.
“Get. Away.”
Nope, she’s pissed. I bounce from the chair, pushing the jump drive deep into my coat pocket as I head for the couch. I sit down and Bren sits next to me. We both listen to Norcut outside, and when the doctor returns, Bren grabs my hand, her palm slick against mine.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Callaway. We seem to be having computer difficulties. Could we”—Norcut winces, anticipating Bren’s response—“reschedule?”
“Yes. Sure. No problem.” Bren hauls me to my feet while the psychiatrist stares at us, mouth slightly unhinged. She can’t believe her good luck. “I’ll call you.”
“Please do.” Norcut’s pale eyes follow us. “I’m always happy to help.”
And what a help she was. It’s almost enough to make me grin. But even if Norcut helped me with my Bay problem . . . I sneak a sideways look at Bren and my stomach squeezes.
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