Remember Me (8 page)

“Okay.” I follow him, and Milo trails after me. The rain's coming down in sheets now and Griff takes my keys, promising to drive my car close so I can duck in without getting totally drenched. I start to say it doesn't matter and I don't mind, but he's already off and running.

“So sweet,” Milo says as Griff sprints through the rain.

Yeah, he is.
I want to smile and try not to. Even though I've only known Milo less than an hour, I can already tell he'll wreck the nice gesture. Sometimes Griff treats me like I'm breakable—something I should hate. When it's Griff doing it though I just end up feeling special. Wanted.

Lucky.

Milo steps in front of me. “You could do some serious damage with the hardware I'm going to build you.”

“I'm not like that.”

“Why not?”

It should be another smart-ass question, only Milo sounds genuinely interested.

“Because it's wrong.” I wait for his response and, when it doesn't come, I glance at him, realize he's staring at me. “What?”

“Everyone is capable of damage.”

“Well, I'm not like everyone.”

Milo jerks up his chin like I've just taken a swipe at him. “Everyone is everyone.”

“Not me.”

“Not yet.”

I roll my eyes and it only seems to make his curiosity grow. Milo draws so close I can smell the mingling scents of cologne and computer plastic clinging to his clothes.

“What is this then? Like a girl power thing? You only use your powers for good?”

“No, I use my powers for money. I just don't destroy people.” Well, that's sort of a lie. I
have
ruined people. After I turned in my findings, I'm sure some people were never the same.

That's not to say that I did it for funsies. Those guys deserved it. I'm not getting into that with Milo though.

“You've been given a gift, Wick. Why aren't you using it?”

“I
am
 . . . just not like that.”

“If I had your talent, I'd rule the world.” Milo watches the Mini's headlights draw closer. He opens the restaurant door and a cold, wet wind nudges under my clothes. “You're special. Why are you hiding from it?”

I tuck my jacket around me, getting ready to run for it. “Bringing people down wouldn't make me special.”

“No, the fact that you
could
makes you special. I'll be in touch soon. Pleasure doing business.”

8

In typical Georgia fashion, it's stopped raining by the time we get home, but the sky is still marbled with purple-gray clouds and I'm worried about Griff getting drenched if he rides his motorcycle home.

“I could drop you off at your house,” I offer as he pulls us into my driveway. Griff parks and turns to face me. “You could pick up your bike tomorrow.”

“It's fine. I don't melt if I get wet.”

“But I do?” I'm grinning, even though a little piece of me remembers Milo's comment and bristles.

“Of course you do.” Griff traces his hand through my hair, his fingertips resting on my pulse like he wants to hold my heartbeat. It. Just. Kills me.

Sometimes when we're touching, I can't even hear my thoughts. Part of me thinks that's dangerous. The rest of me
knows
it's dangerous. Look what happened to my mom. Look what happened to Tessa. They fell in love and it consumed them until there was nothing left.

I always thought I would be different. When it comes to Griff though, I may not be different at all.

“You'd totally melt,” he murmurs, raising chills across my skin. “Wicked Witch of the West–style.”

I laugh. Can't help it. I love that about him. Whatever tension I'd sensed at Milo's is gone now. Maybe I even imagined it.

Griff's hand drops. “What are you going to do with the sniffer?”

“I don't know yet.” It's not exactly a lie. I really don't know how I'm going to make this work. I just know I will. The transmitter's in my pocket. I can feel it, and knowing it's there makes my stomach unclench.

We climb from the car and I give him a lopsided grin—the best I can do at the moment. “They're good to have around, Griffin. Maybe I'll turn over a new leaf, go totally stalker girlfriend, and use it on you.”

He laughs, looks at me like I'm wonderful, and when I look at him, I feel wonderful. That's Griff's gift. He looks at you like you're the only girl in the world.

Like you're his reason to exist.

“Well, I guess you could be into shoes or whatever,” Griff says, smiling, and then, just as suddenly, scowling. “I'm sorry about the name thing. I didn't want to tell him who you really are.”

“No big deal. Red Queen isn't my real name anyway.” It's not like that's who I am. Well. It is, but I'm changing that.

“It's just that he's a friend,” Griff continues. “Sorta. I trust him. It was the only way he'd take the job. Milo doesn't really need the money.”

“Seriously? That place is gross.”

“I know, right?”

We both laugh.

Griff looks at me sideways. “I miss this.”

“Miss it?” My sudden laugh dies. “We never stopped.”

“It just feels like everything's different now.”

“It's not.”

“I know. That's still the way it feels.”

I lift my face for a kiss and he leans down, grabbing me with both hands. I hook my fingers into his belt loops and angle us closer.

It makes him kiss me harder. He feels so good. Perfect even.

His mouth moves over mine, urging me on, and I can feel that familiar hunger crawling through me, threatening to take me apart as his lips trail across my lower lip, along my jaw, and find that impossibly sensitive spot on my neck.

“I gotta go,” Griff whispers against my skin.

“Okay.” It's not, but I pretend it is. I pull back, smooth my hair until you can't probably (hopefully) tell we've been kissing.

Griff watches me and, when his eyes meet mine, they're darker than they were before. Hotter.

“See you at school?” he asks.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Griff waits for me to open the front door before he starts his bike. He lifts one hand in the air, pulls into the street. I drag myself inside and barely have my shoes off before Bren's calling me from the kitchen.

“Wick?”

“Yeah?”

“There's a package for you. I put it on the hall table.”

Package?
I drop my bag on the floor, kick it next to Lily's yellow backpack. There are about forty different catalogs smeared across the table. Most of them are for gourmet food or cooking tools, the rest are for kids' toys Lily and I are too old for.

“Do you see it? Is it from one of the colleges we looked at?” The oven slams and something, dinner probably, clatters onto the counter. “Don't forget they're supposed to send you more information.”

Forget? How could I possibly forget when you remind me every day?
It should irritate me, but more and more Bren makes me smile.

As promised, the package is at the table edge. It looks too small for glossy college brochures and for a second I don't want to touch it. Something's wrong here. There's no return address. The label is computer printed. It looks clean . . . I know it's not.

And in my head, I hear Todd breathe my name.

I press my shoulders against the wall and tell myself to stop it. This isn't like what happened before.

“Wick?” Bren sounds closer this time like she's approaching the hall. “Did you find it?”

“Yes! Thanks!”

Get moving.
I work my fingernail against the tape, then lift the box lid.

“It's not the college stuff,” I yell, bracing one hand against the table to keep my knees from crumbling. “It's that study guide I ordered.”

Only it isn't. It's another DVD.

 

How can she
look even thinner?
I sit at my desk, knees tucked under my chin, as the interview progresses. It's like watching one of those stop-motion videos. In every new interview, she looks smaller.

Even more scared.

It's the only thing that feels familiar about any of this: her fear and my . . . hate? I pull my knees closer. It used to be hate. Maybe it still is. It would have to be, right? I hate her for jumping. I hate her for leaving us with him.

Mostly, I hate how our love was never enough, how his was somehow better because he withheld it.

I can't think about that right now. I minimize the video, calling first the city police department and then the county's, asking the receptionists if I can speak with Officer Hart. Even though I've blocked my cell from showing on their caller ID, I'm still twitchy, ready to hang up if Hart answers—only he doesn't because no one's heard of an Officer Hart at either location.

“In fact,” the last receptionist says, “we've never had
any
officer by that name. Sorry.”

She disconnects and I stare at my computer screen, my breathing high and wheezy. I should toss the DVD now. No Hart at either location? Then who is he? This is some sick game. I should . . . I hit the play button.

“You have to let me go.” My mom's at the same table. Someone's given her a wilted sandwich and she's pulling it apart. The gesture is so Lily it cracks me. “You have to let me stop.”

“When you've given us what we want.”

“I've tried!”

“Have you?”

“I—I—” A sob hijacks her answer, but they keep pushing her, setting my teeth on edge.

Or maybe it's just from her crying. I have to force myself to sit through it and no matter how much I adjust the computer's volume, bass, or treble I still know the sound of her. Coming through a set of speakers or overheard through the walls of my once-upon-a-time bedroom, I know her.

And, suddenly, I miss my mom so much it makes my throat go thick.

“What else do you have, Mrs. Tate?”

It's a new voice. Male. I rerun the video so I can hear it again. Even though I've been around a shit ton of Peachtree City cops, I don't recognize this one. For the next four minutes, it's nothing more than her soft sobs and their urgent words. I can't make out anything . . . then the video ends. Black screen. White letters.

 

See How She Was Used?

 

Bile touches the back of my mouth.

I turn the monitor off, lean my forehead against the edge of the desk, and focus on how my bare feet press the hardwood floor. I don't understand. What's the point of this? Why is someone sending me these?

To make me feel bad?

No. Obviously, no. That would be stupid.

Then what? What am I supposed to learn? “See what they did to her?” “See how she was used?” Is this supposed to show me how I had it all wrong? She wasn't a coward for refusing to leave . . . she was what? Brave for staying? That doesn't feel right either. There's nothing brave about letting your husband terrorize your kids.

And who's doing the interviews anyway? My instinct says Carson. It's not his voice though—no matter how many times I try to convince myself it is. So that leaves . . . the Hart guy?

Hell if I know. I don't think I heard him in the video. Then again, we only spoke for what? A minute? Would I recognize him without seeing his face? Not likely.

How did he send the new DVD anyway? How's he know where I live? I grab the ripped-open box from my bed and study the postmark. Anyone could have mailed this. Maybe Hart was just a onetime messenger.

But if that's the case, who's he working for?

I rub both hands over my face and notice the time. Jesus, it's late. I'm going to look like death warmed over tomorrow and I have a chemistry test I need to study for.

Frustrated, I open my desk drawer, pull out the homework I should be doing . . . and my eye catches the sniffer.

As long as I'm on the subject of people I don't know shit about, I might as well take care of Milo too.

I open another browser window, spend a few minutes wiring money to the builder's account. Thank God my clients paid me well. I've saved everything I've earned from the past few years in an offshore account, making it easy to move funds around. After I get the wire transfer confirmation, I email it to the address Milo gave me. Then I open Google and type in his name. It doesn't take much time to find out the builder went to Westminster, an überpricey private school on the north side of Atlanta, and based on the graduation date from the Facebook alumni page, he can't be older than twenty.

Other than that? There's nothing else—not exactly unusual for someone like him, and it'd be disappointing if his father weren't a completely different story.

According to two online newspapers, Simon Gray used to work for the NSA. Then, following a total nervous breakdown, bounced between mental institutions and jail. The arrest reports are pretty much all the same: loitering, resisting arrest, drunk in public.

Rinse. Repeat. End up living with Milo.

Interesting. I can't quite reconcile the swaggering techie with someone who has this kind of backstory and I'm not sure if that says something about him . . . or something about me.

I look at the time again. Three a.m. No point in going to sleep. Might as well stay up and watch the rest of the interviews.

The thought makes my stomach tilt.

Maybe Griff was right. This is bad stuff and I should never have looked, but now I did and I don't know what to do. All I can think about is my dad's addicts, how I never understood why you would return again and again to something that would make you bleed.

I guess I have my answer now: How can you
not
? I push play again, watch my mother's face come to life. For the first time, there's a case number at the bottom of the screen. Coincidence?