Remember Me (31 page)

What the . . . oh. That's right. Morris put his cell down while we were washing the blood off my face . . . only that's Milo's number flashing on the caller ID.

I look up, searching the faces on the other side of the police tape. No Milo. I rub one hand along the back of my neck. Now really isn't the time for a heart-to-heart—especially on someone else's cell.

The call rolls to voice mail and, seconds later, Milo calls again. I stick my head around the side of the ambulance. Morris is nowhere in sight.

I pick up the phone, sliding the pad of my thumb along the screen to answer. “Neat trick.”

“Isn't it? I'll teach you how to do it if you like.”

“Maybe. It's almost as neat as figuring out I was at Bay's house.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Apparently I have another concussion . . . and I may need stitches.”

“Jesus, Wick—”

“How did you know I was at Bay's?”

Silence.

I grip the cell harder. Surely, he didn't . . .
“Milo!”

“I put a tracker on your car, so when the skeevy-looking guy drove it, I knew where you were.” The words rush from him, piling up in a messy spill, and even though I expected them, they still sting. “I'm sorry, okay? Really sorry. It was shitty, but I wanted to see if it worked and I wanted to see you and—and we could talk about my total lack of boundaries if you would let me take you to dinner.”

“That would be like giving you permission to stalk me.” I check for Morris again, spotting him near two cops, everyone gesturing with their arms. “Where'd Jason leave my car anyway?”

“Not far. Other side of the woods. Shouldn't be long before the cops find it.”

“Goody.”

Milo makes a strained noise. “Look. I fucked up, okay? But this worked out really well for you.”

“I wouldn't say ‘really.'” I could say way worse. Without that explosion . . . I start shaking harder.

Milo takes an uneven breath. “I feel worse that I left you, Wick. After the blast, I tried to find you and I couldn't and the cops were coming and I had residue all over my hands and I couldn't afford to get caught.”

“I understand.” And, surprisingly, I do. I get it. I would've even told him to run. We're the same like that. “I wouldn't have wanted you to get caught . . . and I'm sort of glad you stalked me. The bombing was . . . nicely done.”

“So does that mean we're dating?”

“I'm hanging up, Milo.” I do too, but not before I hear his laugh, liquid and hot, in my ear. It stays with me as I erase Morris's Recent Calls list, lingers as I walk around the back of the ambulance.

All three EMTs are with Judge Bay, and neighbors are drawing closer to the police lines. It's hard to recognize any faces. I probably don't want to anyway. Until my eyes snag on a familiar shape. For a second, I think it's Milo. It's not.

It's Griff.

And I'm two strides toward him before I even realize I'm moving. I duck around two police officers heading for the judge and, for once, know everything I need to say to Griff. I can make this right.

You came, I will say. Always, he will say. I'm sorry, I will say. We'll put this behind us, we both will say because I'll tell him the truth about everything. Only I get closer and none of that comes out because, when I reach for him, my fingers circling his bare wrist, Griff jerks away.

“Don't,” he says, and I freeze. “I had to see if you were okay. That's all.”

“I'm okay.” It's a whisper and I want it to be more. I clear my throat in a sharp cough and Griff's eyes waver. I thought he was looking at me. He wasn't. Griff was staring at the gouge on my face. He's
still
staring at the gouge on my face. “Thanks for coming.”

The skin along Griff's throat tightens as he swallows. “I want to hold you and I can't.”

“You can.”

“I can't. If I touch you once, Wicked, I'll have to touch you again.”

“Griff—” His eyes lift to mine and something inside me pitches sideways . . . cracks.

“Bye, Wicked.”

No. No. No. A million
no
s and I can't breathe even one. Griff steps away as a hand snatches my shoulder, spins me around.

“Miss, I need you to stay put.” It's another officer. He props me up by my bad arm and pain makes the world stumble sideways.

“I can't. I—I need Detective Carson.” I tug myself from his grip. “Is he around?”

The officer shakes his head. “No.”

“Will he be here soon?”

The guy hesitates. “They can't reach him.”

“Can't—” My stomach plummets into my feet. You can always reach Carson. Always. There's only one thing that would keep him away from watching Bay's destruction: his own.

Behind us, someone calls for the officer. “Just a little while longer,” he promises, walking away. Leaving me alone again.

It bumps my heart into my mouth. Milo's plan to tank Carson. If it worked, Carson's storage unit will be packed with ATF agents busy tracing their leads to him. Considering the detective's already missing, I bet he knows. He knows and he's running.

If I could get to Carson's house before the agents do, I could steal back my desktop and the footage of Griff. I bite down a laugh.

I could steal back my
life
.

49

Revenge looks like this: It's stealing Morris's EMT jacket from the hook in the ambulance and walking from the crime scene like I was never a victim. It's finding my car before the cops do and using the spare key—the one I never thought I'd need when Bren stuck the magnetized box to the Mini's undercarriage—to drive away.

It's walking up Carson's muddy driveway in the dark, wanting to laugh.

I should be shaking and, instead, I'm smiling. It feels hard, like something carved with knives.

No more Carson. It's done.

Or it will be once I finish this. Steal my computer. Wipe the detective's. I'll be free. Griff will be free. The possibility is a sharp and brilliant pang. He'll be safe. We both will.

Doesn't take long to reach the house. It sits, still and black, in the moonlight and I have to force myself to wait when all I want to do is run across the yard cheering.

Gone. Gone. Gone. Carson's gone.

I skirt the yard, staying close to the tree line, until I reach the rear of the house. If his alarm is set, I'll have maybe twenty minutes before the police show up. That's fine though. I need less than ten. I tug on the latex gloves I stole from the ambulance and I pull the Mini's tire iron from underneath my hoodie, taking two running steps and smashing the door's side window.

Nothing. I jam my hand through the opening and pop the locks. Best to assume it's a silent alarm and hurry. I stumble through the unlit kitchen, making it to the living room by feel alone. My hip grazes the worn couch. Two more strides and my shin rams into Carson's computer desk.

Bingo.

I drop to my knees, one hand groping for the CPU, the other grabbing my bootable jump drive from my bag's pocket. I plug it into Carson's computer and punch the power button, tilting the screen down. It makes it hard to see what I'm doing but doesn't throw much light into the room.

After a minute, a blue menu appears. The command prompt blinks “boot:” and I quickly type “autonuke.” The screen jumps to black, a progress bar appearing at the top. The computer clicks and whirs as the hard drive begins shredding all its data. By the time the program finishes, the computer's information will be completely unrecoverable.

Lights twirl across the room.

I lift my head, see a car easing up to the house. A man gets out.

Carson's home.

 

I wait for
him in the dark. Two days ago, shadows this thick would have suffocated me. Now . . . it feels fitting. Right.

Which isn't to say I'm not thinking about my options. If Carson comes through the rear door, he'll see the broken glass and know I'm here. If he comes through the front, I could leave through the kitchen. The detective won't know I've been here until I'm way gone.

I watch him linger in front of the still-running car, his shadow stretching through the window and into the room.

Almost to my toes.

Carson moves, a quick, jerky walk toward the porch. Perfect. He's coming through the front door. For every step forward, I take a step back, my stomach sinking. No time left to search for my computer, but at least Griff will be safe.

By the time Carson's opening the lock, I'm almost to the kitchen. The door swings open and I pause, waiting for his movement to cover the sounds of my own.

“Wick?” My name is soft, urgent, and nothing like Carson. It stops me dead.

“Wick?” the detective whispers. “If you're here, you need to run. They're coming and you can't be seen here. They're looking for me.”

No shit. I want to move, but my legs have turned to lead. “Believe me,” I say at last, watching his head twist side to side as he tries—and fails—to locate me in the dark, “I am
so
gone. I had a few things to finish first though.”

“My computer?”

I don't say anything.

“Will they be able to find anything on it anymore?”

Again, I don't say anything and Carson nods, hearing everything. By helping Griff, I've helped him. On the one hand, it's a steep price. On the other . . . there is nothing I won't pay for Griff to go free.

“Then let me repay the favor,” Carson says, taking three heavy steps into the room. The detective uses his cell to cast a small patch of light on the shelves and, as I watch, he removes several rows of books. They were hiding a safe.

“No point in keeping them anymore.” Carson cradles the desktop and a VHS tape against his chest, carrying them toward me. I'm about to tell him not to come any closer when he stops, puts the both of them on the carpet between us.

“There. Now we're even.” The detective retreats to the front widows, scanning the yard.

We are not even, but I decide not to argue. I tuck the desktop under one arm, tossing the tape into my bag. “Thanks.”

“Joe Bender was shivved a few hours ago. Any idea why that would happen?”

I turn to go. “Karma?”

“More like something you did.”

Suddenly, I wish there were light. I want to see the detective's face. He sounds . . . pleased? I can't tell.

“They had to Life Flight him to the hospital,” Carson continues.

Something inside me squishes flat. “So he made it?”

“No.” The detective pauses to let me digest this, or maybe he's hunting for some sign that I'm thrilled.

That makes two of us.

“I know you were involved, Wick.”

“Prove it.”

“I don't have to. You've never visited the jail and, suddenly, you're there
twice
. And then one of them dies. You want to tell me that's not connected?”

“Prove. It.”

“I can't, but other people will have noticed.” The detective's shoulders round, and in the glow from the headlights, he looks close to collapsing. “There are some things you need to know before I go.”

I don't care. I
don't
. My stomach squeezes uneasily and Milo's smile lights up my head. “Where are you going?”

“Can't tell you. Hell, I don't even know yet.”

“What happened?” The words escape before I can smother them.

“I had this storage locker, kept some of my . . . information in there. Someone called in a bomb threat and the next thing I know they're running dogs by all the units, looking for explosives. Guess where they found them? My locker. My fingerprints. My stuff. And I had it all under a fake name. How do you think that will look?”

“Not good?”

“Not good,” he echoes, and his laugh sounds rotten. “Damn right it's not good. The stuff in the unit is mine, but the explosives—” Carson shakes his head hard. “I've been set up. I can't prove it and, even if I did, there's the matter of the other . . .
things
in the locker. I had information from other sources, information on other cases. Once the ATF tracks it to me, I'll be put on administrative leave pending the investigation's completion. Everyone will act like I'll be back and we all know I won't be. I'll never work again.”

And all those other “sources” like me will go free.
Red-hot satisfaction rolls through me. It's round and hard as pennies. I want to spill it over my fingers, roll around in it until I come up drenched. Milo was right. I am impressed.

I'm fucking thrilled.

“You need to know about who's been watching you, Wick. There are other people who want to use you.”

“No shit, I'm talking to one.”

“I'm not like them. I mean . . . I have used you, just not like they would. I know they've contacted you. You need to ask yourself
why
they're doing it now.” Carson pauses, waiting for my response, and when there isn't one, his shoulders sag. “We were doing real work, Wick. I was going to make you a hero.”

Except Carson decided who was worthy and who was evil—and I'm not sure which is worse: Carson thinking he's a good guy or the idea that other people are hunting me.

“What else do you have?”

“Nothing. I swear it.”

I start to leave. “Good luck with running.”

“Wick.”

I don't know what I'm expecting when I turn around, but it's not the hunched figure standing in front of me.

“Be careful,” he says, his voice a flattened nothing. “One day you'll look back on this and you'll remember how good it was. We were a team.”

“We were never a team, Carson.”

He lifts one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “Then you'll remember me telling you this: They're coming for you, and without me, you'll have nowhere to hide. It's just beginning.”