Trust Me (11 page)

For three whole seconds, I'm not at Looking Glass. I'm not staring at a computer screen. I'm with Griff. I'm standing in the days after Todd, but in the weeks before I was blackmailed by Carson, when Griff's touch felt like he was drawing a poem on my skin.

Why does every memory of him taste like hope?

“Wick?” Hart. His tone turns my name blunt and bloody. “Everything okay?”

Hart's turned his back to Kent and the computer to focus on me. Actually, everyone's focused on me.

I shiver. “Yeah, I'm fine. It's just weird.”

Hart nods, waiting for me to add something else. I definitely want to, but I shrug like I don't. My shoulders are strung so tight they pop. I want to ask about the
cameras at Bren's, but how do I do it without giving away Alex? Maybe I shouldn't care. Maybe this is every girl for herself.

“Continue watching her email accounts,” Hart says, still focused on me. If he's searching for a reaction, he doesn't get it. I'm good at the glazed-eye look.

Then again, Hart's good at it too. There's nothing in his expression now. His eyes are shiny as marbles. He doesn't believe me. Another line's been crossed and I need to fix it, make it look like I'm on their side still.

Hell, I
am
on their side still.

“Hey, I've been thinking.” Kent snorts and I ignore him. “Do you think you could get copies of the security footage from my dad's release?”

“You want to watch him leaving?”

“Yeah, I want to see who was with him.”

Hart perks up. “You think you'd recognize the guy?”

I pause, turning the question in my mind until it clicks. “You've already seen it.”

A single nod. “I can get the video clips to you immediately. We still have them on file.”

“Since when?”

“Since the day after it happened.” Hart faces me fully now. “We had to know, Wick. We're keeping you—and your family—safe.”

He sounds so reasonable. Unease shouldn't be trickling through me. It's the same Hart from Bren's living
room. The same guy who worried searching for my dad was dangerous.

That it was backtracking.

He's been looking out for me. So why am I feeling light-footed, like I'm seconds away from bolting? Because there's something wrong here? Or because I can't see straight? Because I've
never
been able to see straight when it comes to trust. I always pick the wrong person. I feel sorry for dangerous people and I don't realize my mistake until it's too late.

I've been a really great target over the years, which is hilarious since it's the one thing I never wanted to be.

“I'll make sure the files are in your Looking Glass account after dinner,” Hart says. “You can review them tonight or tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” I start to turn and Milo reaches for my arm.

“Wick—” he says.

I freeze and Hart steps between us. “I need a few more minutes with you, Milo.” He flicks his gaze to Alex. “Both of you can go. Remember there's therapy tonight—and bring your completed homework. Don't forget.”

It would be a little hard to, but both of us nod like we totally appreciate the reminder and shuffle for the door. Alex doesn't say a word as we head toward the elevator. Once we're inside though she faces me and waits.

And waits.

I grind my teeth to keep from snapping at her.

“Isn't that interesting?” she asks at last. The doors open on our floor and we step off, Alex trailing so closely our sleeves brush. “You think he would've ever told you if you hadn't asked?”

“Who cares? Point is, I did ask and I'm getting the files.” I sound so light; I almost believe it doesn't needle me. I face her. “I need to borrow your phone.”

“Phone?”

“Don't start.”

“Or what?”

“Don't make me tell Hart.”

“Then neither of us will have a line to the outside.” She shrugs and swipes her key card through our room's security pad. Inside, I lean against the frosted glass door as she rifles through her stuff.

“They're protecting my family, Alex. I can't lose that.”

She turns. “Are you convincing me? Or yourself?”

I don't have an answer, but I don't think I'm supposed to. She passes me the cell and the battery's hot to the touch.

“Use it,” Alex says. “But only because I'm generous and because you're going to need me, and I prefer it when people owe me favors.”

The rest of
the evening drags. We have dinner. We have therapy. We turn in homework and Milo never shows.

When I ask about him, Hart shrugs and says, “Maybe he had something to finish up.”

Maybe, but if that were true, Hart wouldn't be watching me like he's waiting for a reaction. I smile like there isn't something festering inside me and follow Alex back to our room. We don't say much. We've both been assigned more homework and I'm nowhere near finished with my chemistry notes when I quit. Milo's in my head, but the cell is calling me. I want to use the phone's internet.

I want to search for Griff's name.

I stuff my hand between the bed and the dresser, wiggling my fingers until I can tug the cell from its hiding spot. It's kind of stupid how much I've missed my own phone. Holding this one makes me feel more like myself.

“Just can't wait to make that call, huh?” Alex doesn't look up from her math homework, but I like to think she can feel me giving her the bird. I jump off the bed and shut myself in the bathroom.

“What?” she calls. “You shy now?”

I prefer to think of it as being practical. I can't afford to give her leverage.

But yeah, there might be some shyness too. Griff is mine. Not mine in the sense that I own him. More like . . . it's personal. What we had was something that belonged to me. Just me. And the loss of it sinks me to the floor.

I press my shoulders to the tiled wall and search Griff's name. Top two results are local newspaper articles about his art school scholarship. He'll be attending Savannah College of Art and Design in the fall, and even though both
columns are basically the same thing, I reread them and I can't stop my grin.

Griff always wanted to go to SCAD. It was part of his master plan, part of that happily ever after he wanted more than anything. And I want to concentrate on how this is wonderful and amazing and “a great example of a disadvantaged youth conquering adversity.”

But my brain keeps circling how close Griff came to losing it all.

Carson would've ruined that. Gladly. I traded myself for Griff. My future for his future. He will never know how close he came and I'm glad for that. Truly.

I think once you realize that safety is just an illusion, that family is just a word, and that everything is always on the edge of disappearing, nothing ever looks the same again. Because once you lose that belief, you don't lose it just a little. You sink it ten thousand miles below your surface. In the muck. In the mire. And even if you resurrect those beliefs, they don't look the same. They will
never
look the same.

Griff does though. As I'm scrolling through pictures of his drawings and articles about his art show wins, he looks exactly the same. Beautiful. Untouched. Not damaged. Damn sure not broken.

I close the cell's browser and lie on the cold tile floor, stare at the ceiling until the minutes smear past and I'm chilled through. Alex turns the bedroom light off around
one thirty, but I doubt she's sleeping. She's waiting, listening. We're both watching each other now, hunting for cracks. If I were in her position, I wouldn't lose this opportunity either.

The quieter she is, the better chance she can hear me.

Good luck with that, Alex, because there won't be anything
to
hear. I downloaded an iCam app to the phone. The upside is I'll be able to see Griff. The downside? He won't be able to see me. I won't be able to communicate any answers and the only way he'll know I'm even there is when the cam goes live and the light turns on.

I check the phone's screen: 1:55. Still a little more time.

I could so do without that. My heart's already stuttering in my chest. If I get caught . . . best not to think about it.

1:59.

I sit up and open the app, plug in the address. The screen goes black, then gray, then fills with Griff and I can't breathe.

His eyes flick to the top of his screen—probably noticing the web cam light—and Griff bites his lower lip once before his gaze drops. I can't tell where he is. The surroundings are dim and people are passing by. It's definitely not his bedroom, so . . . internet café? It's awfully late for a Starbucks.

Griff scoots lower in his seat, passing one hand over his jaw. It's the same T-shirt, same scruff, but he looks . . . strained. Exhausted.

I tell myself it has to be the lighting.

His attention dips, and briefly, I'm confused; then he lifts a pad of paper. There are a few lines scribbled across the page:

I only have a few minutes. This was the safest way to talk I could think of.

I nod and immediately feel stupid. He can't see me, but I agree with him. Video feeds aren't as easily monitored as calls. This is smart for both of us. Griff flips the pad again and dashes off a few more lines:

Michael's looking for something. Rumor says it's money.

I tense. That . . . doesn't make any sense. Why would Michael be looking for money? He already has the eleven million he stole from Looking Glass.

Doesn't he?

Griff's eyes track over and over the screen. I want to call him, but even if I could, I'm not sure I could find my voice. I feel suddenly buried.

He turns the pad, tears off the top page, and scrawls another line:

Rumor also says you stole it from him.

Stole it?
I slump forward. I didn't even know about it until this week. And furthermore, rumor from who? Rumor
from around the neighborhood? From one of Michael's guys? The first doesn't worry me. The second does. A lot.

Griff waits, studying the screen before flipping the pad around once again. This time, he takes a little longer, hesitates before turning it to me.

That means he's looking for you.

My heart stutters and I have to force myself to breathe. Breathe again. It's fine. It is. I knew Michael was looking for me. Aside from the searching-for-money thing, Griff isn't telling me anything I didn't already know.

Too bad no matter how many times I repeat this to myself, my stomach is still sloshing around my feet. Michael thinks I stole money from him? This is bad. This is very, very bad.

Griff's eyes return to the top of the screen, lingering. He flips the pad around, jots another line, and holds it up:

I hope you're safe.

“I hope you're safe too,” I whisper, and once again, my fingers itch to dial his cell, to take the risk. I could stuff towels underneath the door and crank the shower full blast. Maybe I could get away with it. I want to ask him about the viruses again, see if he has any idea who would be trying to warn me.

Griff turns the pad to him and makes a quick slash across it, then turns it to me:

I wish I'd told you how much I miss you.

He hesitates again, opening his mouth like there's something else to say, and I lean toward the screen because I'm ready for it, but he shakes his head once. Twice. He grabs the top of his laptop and closes it. My screen goes black and he's gone.

The smart thing to do would be to go to bed, but even if I did, it's not like I'm going to sleep. I push to my feet, and once I'm standing, all I can feel is how my legs are shaking.

I clear the phone's history and unlock the bathroom door, grab my Chucks from the floor, and toss the cell onto Alex's bed.

She catches it. “Where are you going?”

“To work. You want to follow me there too?”

“Nah.” Alex settles deeper into bed. She's just a shadow now. “If you're going to work for them, I don't need to see it.”

She pitches the cell at me and I have to put up both hands to avoid being clipped in the face.

“Keep it,” Alex says. “You know you want to.”

“Not enough to risk getting caught.”

“Who's going to tell?”

I can't bring myself to say she would, but my silence does it for me.

Alex's laugh is smoke in the dark. “Call your sister. It'll only prove me right. I dare you.”

I jam the cell into the waistband of my jeans and pad down the hall, stuff my feet into my shoes as I wait for the elevator. Upstairs, the workstations are under low lights, but Kent's still working away, one hand on his keyboard and the other wrapped around a plastic Big Gulp. A gift from Hart? I would've thought Kent's standards would be higher.

“What're you doing?” he asks around a mouthful of crushed ice.

I shrug. “What're
you
doing?”

“I have important things going on.”

“Yeah. Clearly.” I drop into my seat, rub the back of my neck as I wait for my computer to boot. As promised, the video file is in my email, and at first I'm slightly confused because there should be more files—different angles from different cameras—and then I realize everything's been edited into one clip.

There's my dad emerging from some holding cell . . . another few seconds of him coming down one hallway . . . and then another hallway . . . and then to a processing area. There's a desk and some guy manning the desk.

Michael waits as they go through his paperwork. From this angle, I can really see him. He's dropped weight and
there's a smudge of darkness near his collar. A new tattoo?

Clipboards pass between two guards, and ever so briefly, my dad's eyes lift to the camera and hold. His gaze flicks left then right, counting the cams probably. I squirm. It's another habit we share.

Whatever was on the clipboard apparently made the second guard happy because he waves Michael through. The video jumps to my dad going down another hallway . . . through another secured door . . . and into an open receiving area. A blond guy is waiting for him and they walk out. There's maybe another forty-five seconds of the two of them leaving the parking lot. Walking.

Whoever this guy is, he was smart enough not to leave his car where the plate would be picked up by the security cams. Which probably means he left it down the road a bit. Risky. There isn't a cop alive who wouldn't check an abandoned vehicle that close to the jail.

Maybe somebody else met them?

I watch the whole thing again. And then once more. Hart's right. It's not particularly useful. Yeah, Michael doesn't look surprised, so you could assume he knew what was coming, but the biggest problem is not knowing Blondie's real identity. He had the release papers. He walked both of them straight through the doors. That means purpose; he needs Michael for something.

The money? That can't be it—not if my dad thinks I have it. Unless . . . unless Blondie is supposed to help Michael get it back.

I skim two fingers over my still scabby forearm. Did Blondie pull me from Hart's car in the accident? If so, who was waiting in the SUV?

My stomach threatens to swoop into my mouth and I swallow. Get a grip. There's no point in speculating. I need to stick to what I
do
know: There are some serious connections at work here. You don't get those kinds of papers at Walmart or whatever. This took thought, planning, and the right kind of forger.

I don't know anyone capable of pulling it off and I know—knew—most of my father's contacts. I rewind a few frames to watch the two men walk out like it's no big deal. Maybe Michael's expanded his circle of friends since landing in jail? I mean I guess it's possible, but wouldn't that sort of thing take money?

Which Michael doesn't have. He's never had.

Except maybe he did and now he thinks I have it.

I pause the video and rewind it until I'm at the receiving area again. They don't shake hands. I can't see Michael's expression since the camera's behind him, but the blond guy seems relaxed enough. This could be any other day. Like he does it all the time.

And that worrisome feeling I'd had earlier breathes up from the grave I put it in.

It couldn't be.

Or is it because I don't want it to be?

I rewind frame by frame until I'm dead on Blondie. The angle's perfect and I need to know this, but I still have to
take a deep, deep breath before I open the editing program. It takes me a few minutes to manipulate the images. I have to enlarge his face and smooth some of the pixilation.

I don't know a ton of cops. I know the faces of the few who came to our house for domestic disturbances. I could probably pick out the one or two who worked security at our school. And then, of course, there was Carson.

Blondie is definitely not Carson.

But he
is
one of Carson's guys.

I twist my chair from side to side and glare at my reflection in the windows. Every minute or so, Kent looks my way and our eyes meet. His narrow. Mine narrow. I give him the finger and he turns completely around and focuses on his computer again.

I don't know what to do. I still don't know Blondie's name, but I do recognize him. He was riding shotgun in Carson's car one day when I left the jail. I didn't think too much of it after the detective disappeared, but Carson had a team that worked for him back when he was a rising star in the police department. I assumed they were reassigned once he was put under investigation.

What if this one is still working for him? Maybe he thinks Carson's innocent? The detective's been running for over a month now. What if they're trying to clear Carson's name?

I mentally kick myself. There's no connection between Carson and Michael other than Carson hunted and arrested my father. Why would he get Michael out of jail?

Or better yet: What would Carson
gain
by Michael getting out of jail?

Of course, that's assuming Blondie still works for him—unless Blondie works for my dad.

Now that's a disturbing thought. I keep my eyes on Kent, but he doesn't turn around. I twist my chair some more, still thinking. Michael's been in jail for months. Why wait until now to escape? Why not do it sooner? What
changed
?

I sigh, rub my forehead. Because he thinks I stole the money from whatever super-secret account he put it in? That's stupid. I haven't been around the neighborhood in months—not since Griff and I were still dating. And it would
have
to be somewhere in the neighborhood, somewhere physical. The Feds knew about his bank accounts. If it had been deposited, they would've found it and confiscated it, right?

Maybe. I'm having a hard time thinking past my fear. My father's loose and I'm afraid. It's filling every corner of me and I am so ready to be done with being scared.

Beyond our windows, pink and gray light leaks past the neighboring building. It's almost seven thirty and my thoughts leap—and cling—to Lily. I have the cell. I could call. No one would know . . . unless Lily's phone is tapped too. But if it's not . . . if I had a shot at talking to her . . .

Hope tiptoes along my spine on spider legs. I'm not supposed to contact them. Those are the rules. Bren even told Norcut she didn't want me to, but surely—
surely
—Lily doesn't agree. I just need to know they're okay. I just
need . . . my sister. She's worth the risk.

I stand, stretch. There's still no reaction from Kent so I wander to the door, down the hall.

The girls' bathroom is to my left and I never once look at the security camera. I am my father's daughter right now. I'm pretending everything is fine. Inside, I turn on all the faucets, sit in the first stall, and stare at the phone.

Problem is, if the house really is wired, there are probably bugs as well. Hart and Norcut will hear everything. Which means my best shot at reaching Lily is right now—before school, but after she's left the house.

They haven't wanted to talk to me. What if she hangs up? I'm not sure I could handle that.

Then again, I definitely can't handle not knowing. I want to hear her voice. I want someone I can trust telling me they're okay.

Even so, my fingers are slick on the keypad. I hold the phone to my ear, listen to it ring. Ring again. What if it goes to voice mail?

I switch ears. I can't decide whether to leave a message. Leaving one would be as bad as having a conversation around the bugs and cameras. It would leave a trace and totally compromise this phone. And if Lily really doesn't want to talk to me and she shows the message to Bren, I'm beyond hosed.

On the other hand, I may
have
to leave a voice mail. Lily might not pick up if she doesn't recognize the number. Crap. Crapcrapcrapcrap—

“Hello?”

I sit straight. I want to yell and I'm having to whisper. “Lily!”

“Wick! Oh my God, Wick!” There's a bubble in my sister's voice. It's either tears or laughter and I can't decide which, but I feel the same way. “Are you okay? Is everything all right?”

“I'm fine! I'm fine!” I pause, jerking her words around until they make sense. “Why wouldn't everything be okay?”

“Because Mom's been trying to reach you!” Lily holds the mouthpiece so close I can hear each breath. “They keep saying you're not taking our calls.”