Remember Me (14 page)

“You can't forgive her, Wick. I don't want Mom finding these.”

“Bren's not our mom.”

“Fine, she's
my
mom.” Lily glares at me. “Blood doesn't excuse anyone. You don't get a get-out-of-jail-free card because you're related. Family is who you choose—not who you got stuck with because you share a gene pool. Bren doesn't have to care for us. She
chooses
to. She went to
find
us. She's not like . . .” Lily flails one hand and I can't tell if she's batting away our mother or groping for her name. “She left us, Wick. She. Left.
Us
.”

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.

16

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.