Find Me (19 page)

I do not understand how nerds can be happy.
Then again, according to every sitcom on television,
my life should be perfect.

—Page 44 of Tessa Waye’s diary

It takes me fifteen minutes to delete Tessa’s Facebook page. My comments? Gone. His comments? Gone. And the rest of Tessa? That’s gone too.

It kind of feels like she’s being killed again.

I erase all the evidence I can, even running a Gutmann-grade scrubber on my computer to delete all the files and histories associated with Tessa’s Facebook account. But this should buy me time.

Time enough to track down who was using that computer to upload Lily’s picture?
God only knows. I have no idea how to get the information from the library. I doubt they keep the names in an electronic format I could hack, so that leaves me . . . ?

Nowhere.
I check my email once more, but there’s still no response from Tally, so I retreat to the kitchen where Bren is pacing back and forth on a conference call.

“Lauren’s here,” she mouths before telling the person on the other end of her Bluetooth that his pricing is ridiculous.

“We can go elsewhere,” Bren continues, clicking her pen nonstop. “If you want to play ball, then you need to come to the table with a legitimate offer.”

“She always like this?” Lauren hops up onto one of the dark wood bar stools lining the kitchen island.

“Pretty much.” We watch Bren stalk down the hallway, popping her clicker pen. “I think it’s all part of the plan for world domination.”

Lauren nods. “Anyway, I came by to get you. I’m having a party at my house tonight, and I want you to come.”

“I’m not big on crowds.” Which is a shorthand way of saying I’m not big on hanging out with the same people who dropped me in a Dumpster.

“It’s a pool party, Wick. You need the break, and it’ll be fun.” Lauren puts one hand on my arm, talking to me like I rode in on the short bus. “They won’t bother you. I’ll make sure of it.”

I stare at her. Lauren had to have been dropped on her head at cheerleading practice if she thinks Jenna won’t bother me anymore. “Why are you even friends with Jenna?”

Lauren shrugs. “If I weren’t, she’d think I’m scared of her.”

“Lauren.” Bren reappears, pulling off her headset and looking tired. “So nice to see you.”

“Hi, Mrs. Callaway. I was just stopping by to pick up Wick. My mom said I could have some people over tonight—kinda like the last fling before we start SAT preps next week.”

“SAT preps start next week?” Bren’s eyebrows knit. “Wick, did you tell me that?”

Not likely.
“I didn’t really see the point in taking the SAT.”

Lauren cocks her head. “But you have really good grades. Why wouldn’t you take it?”

“Yes, exactly. I don’t understand,” Bren adds. Now both of them are watching me like I’m some sort of performing poodle.

Which I am
so
not. “Well, um, I’ve had quite a bit going on.”

You know? Like surviving?
I shoot Lauren a pointed look. You can’t have a normal life when your meth-dealer dad is on the run and you’re scamming innocent people for money and dead girls’ diaries are showing up on your doorstep. “I don’t think anyone in my entire family has ever gone to college. I’m lucky I have the grades I do.”

“That has nothing to do with luck,” Bren says quietly.

She’s right, of course. Around here, teachers don’t give you a good grade because you’re the plucky poor kid. This isn’t a freakin’ Lifetime movie. I’ve had to work for everything.

“So can she go, Mrs. Callaway?”

Bren fidgets with her Bluetooth headset, clearly conflicted between fury over my not telling her about the SAT preps and giddiness that I’m being included in a quasi-school function.

“Absolutely. I really think you should go, Wick.”

“Bren, do I look like the kind of person who goes to pool parties? Do I look like someone who even
swims
?”

Lauren sighs. “Yeah, you are kind of pasty.”

“Pasty doesn’t even begin to cover it.” I lean one hip against the kitchen counter. “People see me in shorts, they’re going to think an angel has landed.”

Bren starts coughing.

“No one is ever going to see you and think of angels,” Lauren says. “You have to come. I could drag you, you know. I am bigger than you are.”

“Not by much.” But I edge away a little to be safe. Lauren has freaky head cheerleader strength. She weight trains with some of the football players. And I . . . well, I spend my time tapping on my computer.

“Besides,” Lauren continues, “Griff’s going to be there. I told him you were coming, so he said he’d come too.”

I stiffen. “When did you see Griff?”

“Just before I came here. Why?”

“No reason.”

Lauren leans in a little closer, and her innocent smile worms its way wide. “Griff says you two have something really important to talk about.”

I try to smile back, pretend my insides aren’t suddenly twisted. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. He said something about having the names of an IT address.”

“What—an
IP
address?”

Lauren snaps her fingers. “That’s it. An IP address. He says it’s really important for your computer science project.”

“Anything else?”

She shrugs. “He said something about how he has names associated with it. Honestly, all I really remember is ‘Blah, blah, blah, need to see Wick.’”

What the hell? Is he talking about the library IP address? Could he have the real name of the person who used that computer?
I check my phone. Six thirty. I have thirty minutes before I’m supposed to meet Tally. If I hurry, I can make both.

“I’ll be there.”

Once Lauren’s gone,left
I head straight for Tally’s house and wait by the path, but seven o’clock comes and goes without any sign of her. I give it another ten minutes and wonder if I’m being blown off.

If this were any other client, I’d be so gone. Actually, if this were any other client, I wouldn’t even be here. I don’t meet anyone face-to-face, and I sure as hell don’t march up to a client’s house and knock on the door.

But that’s exactly what I decide to do. Tally wouldn’t leave me hanging like this. Something’s wrong. And the closer I draw to her house, the more I think I’m right. The whole place looks shut down. The curtains are drawn. The garage door is shut.

I should turn around and go home. Instead, I grab a copy of
Wired
magazine from my messenger bag and decide, if Mr. or Mrs. Waye answers the door, I’ll tell them I’m selling subscriptions to raise money for school. That’ll work, right?

Right.
I stab the doorbell with one finger. For a long moment, there’s nothing, and then someone moves on the other side of the door and a face appears in the stained glass.

“Wicket!”

I wave. “Hi, Brandy!”

The door swings open, and I’m grabbed up in a massive bear hug. Brandy has been the Wayes’ housekeeper ever since I used to come here as a child. I never saw her after that horrible afternoon, but she holds on to me like we never stopped being friends.

“I didn’t see you at the funeral,” I murmur into her shoulder.

“I couldn’t face it.” Brandy pushes me back with such force I might have stumbled if she hadn’t been gripping my upper arms. “What are you doing here?”

“Um, well.” It would have been easier to lie to the Wayes. I grimace and decide to try for the truth instead. “Actually, I was looking for Tally. Is she around?”

Brandy shakes her head, dark hair falling in her eyes. “No, she’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yeah, with her mom.” Brandy sounds very matter-of-fact, but her mouth stretches like she’s pressing down tears. “I’m gone too. The Wayes are divorcing. Mrs. Waye took Tally to Charleston to be with her mother. They’re not coming back.”

“Why’s that?”

Brandy shrugs, glances back inside like she’s afraid of being overheard. “Don’t know. She said she had to keep Tally safe.”

My skin goes cold. Safe. Does Mrs. Waye know what really happened to Tessa?

“I’m leaving too. Now.” Brandy steers me toward the street, where a lanky guy in a beat-up Toyota pulls up to meet us. “I’m so glad I got to see you before I left, Wicket.”

Suddenly, I’m glad too . . . and sorry. I hadn’t really thought about Brandy in years, but now I miss the way she used to smile at me, how she used to tell me I could be anything . . . and I believed her.

Brandy throws open the passenger door and passes her purse to the guy inside. She turns around, hugs me again. “Stay away from here, Wicket. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s furious—completely enraged. Do not come back here. You remember how he is.”

Of course I do.
I stand at the curb and watch Brandy drive off. I remember a man so controlling he selected Tessa’s clothes, criticized her behavior, chose his daughter’s friends based on their parents’ connections. I thought he was awful. I still do. But now I wonder if it wasn’t something else driving him. What if Mr. Waye was grooming Tessa? I thought it was all about making her perfect enough to live in his perfect life. But what if he was grooming Tessa to be perfect for him?

It would explain why she never told Tally. It would also explain why he stood outside our house. He’s hungry for Lily.

But if that’s true and if Mrs. Waye discovered the truth, why didn’t she report him? Why didn’t she turn him in to the police?

Because she was afraid of him. Mrs. Waye is afraid of her husband, just like my mom was afraid of my dad. Sometimes it’s safer to run.

And who knows, maybe they are safe in Charleston. The thought makes me smile as I walk down the Wayes’ driveway.

Until I think: Tally may be safe, but Lily’s not.

Twenty minutes later,
I turn onto our street and stop. There’s a cop car parked farther down from me. Carson.

For once, he’s not staking us out. He’s standing on our front porch, and Bren’s about to let him inside.

Shit. I look at my phone. It’s after seven thirty,, just over four hours since the picture of Lily was originally posted. Carson must’ve traced the image to my sister . . . or me.

Anxiety makes the low-level thumping in my right temple jump up another notch. Jesus. Of all the times to get a migraine.

Bren shuts the door firmly behind Carson, and after several moments of waiting, it doesn’t look like the detective’s returning to his car anytime soon. I walk down the street with one eye on the house and one eye on Carson’s sedan. My first instinct is to let the air out of his tires, but then . . . then something else occurs to me: Carson can’t be a suspect.

Mrs. Waye would have gone to a man she trusted and loved and told him everything—especially since that man was a cop—but she didn’t. She ran.

I think about the picture of the Wayes on Tessa’s Facebook page. What if Carson somehow knew something was wrong with Tessa? What if he wasn’t looking at her with jealousy, but with suspicion and concern?

What if Carson and I are actually on the same team?

There might be a way to find out.

I walk around the car, and unsurprisingly, all the doors are locked. But in concession to the heat, Carson has cracked the windows. The rear passenger window is open a bit more than the others. Not enough to fit a hand or an arm . . . but it is big enough to slide in a diary.

I watch the house, look for any movement in the windows. Nothing.

Before, I didn’t think the diary would help the police. It’s just too vague. But maybe—
maybe
—it would lead to a closer examination of Mr. Waye.

I take the diary from my messenger bag, turning to page twenty-two and carefully folding down the corner so he’ll see the sentence about how Tessa’s mom loved her daughter’s abuser. It’s not much, but it’s the best I have at the moment.

I wipe the book with the front of my tee. Paranoid? Yes, absolutely. Then I flick it onto the backseat floorboard and step away.

I run for Lauren’s.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

We don’t have guns. My mom keeps the knives
locked up . . . . There has to be another way.

—Page 51 of Tessa Waye’s diary

Lauren’s house looks like something you’d see in a grocery store magazine. I guess for them it’s normal, but I still find it hard to believe real people live like this. All the surfaces are so clean. All the fabrics are so touchable. The colors Mrs. Cross used are brilliant and soft all at the same time. It kind of invites you to just . . . relax.

But it makes me stiff as hell.

People like Bren and Todd would be comfortable here, but of course, they would be. This is their world, not ours.

I guess I should say it’s not
mine
, because Lily is doing just fine. Actually, she’s doing better than fine.

So what’s my deal?

I probably don’t want to know.
I let myself in through the side door that leads to the Crosses’ kitchen. There must be twenty people crowded around, but I don’t make it half a dozen steps before running into Jenna Maxwell. Her pale hair is scraped into a tight ponytail, and she’s sporting a candy-colored dress that looks just like one Bren brought home for me last week.