Trust Me (17 page)

First night home and I sleep with all the lights on. So much for progress, right? It's so bright that, when I do wake, I almost think it's morning. It's not of course. The sky beyond my bedroom window is still dark. The streetlamps are still lit.

I scrub one hand across my eyes. How can I be this tired and still not be able to sleep? I got maybe four hours? Five?

I stretch my arms above my head until my shoulders pop. Coffee. I need coffee. I drag myself into clothes and pad into the hallway, listening. Everything seems quiet. Bren's and Lily's bedroom doors are shut, no lights underneath.

In Lil's case, I'm not surprised. We must've talked for more than an hour last night. It was good. Better than before I left. I'm glad for that. Grateful.

Maybe even hopeful. If I have my sister again, I can do this, right?

I head down the stairs, my fingers finding the dent I left in the wall when Todd chased me all those months ago. You can barely see it anymore—Bren had the whole stairwell repainted a blinding white—but you can feel it. Seems like that's true about everything these days; we keep painting over ourselves, but the damage is still underneath and you can feel it if you know where to touch.

I drop my hand, promise myself that if we get out of this, we'll move and start fresh. Maybe it would help.

Or maybe the damage will just follow.

Downstairs, the security feed is still running and the yard is still empty. I sit in the dining room and take a couple minutes to check my bank and email accounts. I can't risk using them again, but I run through everything just the same.

Because I'm looking for Milo?

Possibly, but it doesn't matter. There's no contact from him. Anywhere. Does that mean forever? Or just for now?

I want to punch him for what he did, but I also want to know he's okay. He would have to be, right? That's his mom. His
mom
.

It should be a comfort and it's not.

I push to my feet, shuffle for the kitchen, where everything is shadowy and I have to grope to find the switch.

“Can you leave that off?”

I jump. Griff. “I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were—”

My eyes have adjusted now, coaxing out the lines of his profile . . . his shoulders . . . his chest. He's shirtless, bent over the sink with one arm angled against his chest. It makes my mouth go dry and hot.

Griff shifts from foot to foot. “I couldn't sleep any longer. The pain keeps me up.”

“I'm sorry.”

He shakes his head—jerks his head, really. Every line of him is angry. “It's no big deal. I needed to change this anyway.” Griff lifts one hand, tugs at a twisted bandage. Even from here, I can see it's not working. He turns away from me, yanks at it again. “Do you think . . . could you . . . ?”

Help him. He won't say the words. Because he can't? Or because it's me—because it's
us
?

I join him at the sink, untangle the gauze in silence. “You know, it would be a lot easier if I could see.” And I turn my face toward the pale light, smile so he knows I'm teasing.

He doesn't smile back. “It's better this way. It's not really that hard to rebandage; I just can't look at it.”

“I get that.”

Griff goes still and I pretend I don't notice. I unwind the gauze and rewrap it over his blistered palms, careful to keep everything smooth. It still hurts him though. His exhale is harsh. It brings him closer. Or is that just me? Am I leaning into him? I can feel his heat. Everywhere.

“There,” I say, pushing away from him. “You're done.”

Griff doesn't respond. The tips of his bandaged fingers
touch the thin skin of my wrist. He traces up, up, up until his thumb is in the crook of my elbow and my legs have gone loose.

I feel like I'm moving underwater when I lift my face to look at him. We are so close. Closer than even when I was doing his bandages. Closer than we have been in months.

My eyes drop to his lips and linger. I could kiss him. I
want
to kiss him. I force myself to meet Griff's eyes. He hasn't moved.

“Griff?” I whisper and I'm not even sure what I want to ask. Or maybe I am sure, because my fingertips find his skin. He's warm, so very warm. How could I have forgotten that?

Griff goes still and I can't stop. I trace the line of his hip . . . the hardness of his stomach . . .

“Please,” he whispers and I'm gone. I pull him to me and my arms can't tighten around him enough and my mouth can't taste him enough and he's grabbing me the same way.

Griff's hips press hard into my stomach and his hands go to my face. The bandages are rough against my cheeks, but he holds me softly like he's trying to spare me.

It's wonderful and perfect and not enough and completely enough and . . . and it feels safe. Griff makes me feel safe.

I didn't realize how much I wanted it, how much I missed it, until now.

And I don't notice how Griff's stiffened until his
hands circle my upper arms. They graze the scratches still left from the car accident and he pushes me back a step. “Wicked . . . I can't do this.”

Can't do this?
I snap my mouth shut and taste him on my lips. “Oh. Right.”

We're both breathing hard. Griff takes two deliberate steps away from me and I struggle not to follow.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

He jerks like I bit him. “No. No, not like that. I can't kiss you yet because I haven't . . .” His teeth click together and his jaw flexes once. Again. “I haven't told you everything. Wick, I . . . I'm still working for Carson.”

My whole world tilts sideways. “What?”

“He came to me after they took you in. That's how I knew where you were. He told me you were in danger and you needed help. I've been pulling whatever information on Looking Glass I can—working through their online presences and some of their customers.”

“Griff, do you even know what—” I shake my head, but everything still feels like it's spinning. “You can't
trust
him. He's a danger to you.”

“Is that why you broke up with me?” Griff takes a step toward me and I retreat. “Were you trying to protect me?”

I can't breathe. I inhale hard and it's still not enough. “Yes. Carson had video of you following me into the courthouse. He said he'd get you prosecuted as a domestic
terrorist. He was going to go after your computer, search for anything incriminating.”

“And you figured since I'd been helping you, I was at risk.”

“Yes. You had—
have
—a future, Griff. He could have taken all of that away. I couldn't let him. The only thing you've ever wanted is to get out, to get away. He was going to take that from you.”

Griff starts to speak, stops. I know how he feels. I don't have anything else to say either. Dawn light is leaking past the drapes, turning the shadows lavender and gray. There's a thump from upstairs and the shower cuts on.

My sister's awake. It won't be long before Bren and Lily are downstairs.

“Why didn't you tell me this sooner?” I ask suddenly. “I mean,
God
, Griff, you could have told me last night.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I just . . . I didn't want you to look at me like—”

Like I am right now. Like Griff looked at me before we broke up.

I pass one hand over my hair. “No, I understand. I couldn't talk to you before because I was scared you'd see who I'd become.”

“I think we're both seeing each other pretty clearly now.” Griff pauses, watching my face, my mouth.

“What kind of work did you do for him?”

“Research mostly. Names. Places. I think he stays on
the move a lot. He's afraid of getting caught, Wick. He's afraid for you.” Another pause before Griff says, “Carson says he can help you. It's worth a shot.”

“No way.”

“He says he'll back you, says he knows about Looking Glass and will testify. He knew about Hart. Carson said he knew the guy was watching you way before they took you in. He said he had evidence against them.”

“Carson had dirt on everyone. Blackmail was his favorite skill.”

“But if you two came forward, it would be . . .”

“A teen hacker and a disgraced police detective. You think a jury would really buy it?”

“What other options do we have?”

I don't answer. Then again, no answer kind of
is
an answer. We have a big, fat nothing. Alex is gone. If I don't get Norcut's money, she'll have me prosecuted for premeditated murder. I glance at Griff, who still hasn't taken his eyes from me.

“After I went to bed last night, Carson contacted me and said he wants to meet you—
us
.”

“Where?”

Another pause. “Your old house.”

I can't swallow past the knot in my throat. “No good. It's being watched.”

“I'll pay some neighborhood kids to distract them. Carson says he knows about the missing money.”

“How?”

“No idea. Isn't it worth asking him though?”

I shake my head. “I still don't understand why Carson would help. He has his own crap going on.”

“Exactly. Carson wants to clear his name and he'll have more leverage if he can prove Milo planted those explosives in his storage unit. If they go to jail, it helps both of you.”

My laugh is a sputter. “What if Carson figured out I was behind it? He could want revenge. I took everything from him. When Milo called in that bomb threat and they found all that evidence he'd been hiding, it
ruined
his career. He's on the run because of me.”

“Which means he doesn't have anything left to hurt you with. You're on equal footing now. Better than equal, actually, because you know that neighborhood better than he ever will. If we have to run, he won't catch us.”

Everyone gets caught in the end.
The thought is sudden, suffocating. I cling to this instead: Carson knows about the money. Carson also had my computer. Could he have come across my account? Was there an undeleted keystroke—something—that led him closer?

No, that's stupid. If Carson stole the money from my account, he wouldn't need to talk to me, but he does want to talk and he does know about the money.

And it's not like I have any other brilliant ideas.

“He can't run, Wick. He can't get out. It's a good thing. He needs us. He needs
you
.” Griff extends one bandaged hand. “Come with me?”

“No.”

We both jump, turn to see Bren in the doorway. She's fisting her bathrobe tighter and tighter and has eyes only for Griff. “The
hell
you're taking her anywhere close to that man.”

“If you have a better suggestion,” Griff says, leaning one hip against the counter, “I'm all for it.”

Bren glares at him, the veins on her hands standing up as she twists and twists the ties on her robe. “I don't and you know it, but for you to even suggest this without telling me—”

“I would've told you.” I step forward, put myself between them. “I'm done sneaking around. I would've told you, Bren. I promise.”

“You're not going.”

“Yeah . . . I am.”

Bren gasps, jerks like I bit her. “Wick—”

“Griff's right,” I say, sighing. “It's not like there are a ton of options to pick from. If Carson wants to talk, let him. We'll see what he brings to the table. Maybe it'll help.”

“I don't see how it could,” Bren says.

I shrug. “Carson's a survivor. He deals in useful things.”

“Is that what you were?” My adoptive mom's question is soft for something so sharp.

“Yes. . . . If anyone can do this, I can, Bren. It's what I do. It's what I am.”

“I don't believe that.” She readjusts her robe, concentrating on the long ties around her waist. “I'll drive you.”

“You don't have to.”

“I'll
drive
you. Both of you.” Bren switches her attention to Griff. “Tell the detective you'll meet him. I'll give you one hour to find out what you can. After that, I'm coming for you.”

I let Griff contact Carson. It only takes a few minutes, a few texts, and just like that, I am dipping into my old life. Or at least, that's what it feels like.

It makes my stomach lurch.

I haven't faced Carson in over a month, not since that last night, when he warned me about people who were worse than he was and gave me back my computer. Not that he'd really had a choice about that.

The detective still wants to meet tonight at my old house, which bugs me. Why there? Why not somewhere else? It doesn't feel right, but Griff has a good point about it being more our territory than the detective's. If I need to run, I'll be able to do it.

“And I'll be right behind you,” Griff adds.

It reassures me far more than I would've expected.

Bren takes Lily to school. Afterward, she'll go home with a friend. I kind of hate it, but she'll be protected and I'll be free to meet Carson. Griff, Bren, and I spend the rest of the day holed up at the house. The hours drag past, giving me plenty of time to stress. I pace. Griff watches movies. Bren checks on us between conference calls. No one says much of anything. We've talked plenty, I guess, and eventually I drop onto the couch next to Griff, watch
The Lord of the Rings
instead of the clock.

“I want that,” I say as he turns off the television when the credits roll.

“What?”

“I want a Big Moment—like the kind people get in movies. I want that decision that forever divides you into Before and After, and if you make the right decision, your After is amazing. But life isn't like that. Your Big Moment is really a billion tiny moments and decisions. You're constantly deciding who you want to be. That's freaking depressing. You're never done.”

Griff shrugs. “True, but that means you can always start over. It's never too late.” He checks his phone, hesitates before looking at me again. “Time to go. You ready?”

I don't answer. I can't. I go get Bren instead.

After a fair
amount of arguing, Bren drops us at an abandoned field on the other side of the neighborhood. Yeah, it's a bit of a hike to get to the house, but we're way less conspicuous, and if any Looking Glass security is still hanging
around, we should be able to slip in undetected. Bren says she understands, but I know it still kills her to drive away. Her eyes linger in the rearview mirror.

When her car turns the corner, I look at Griff. The early evening light slants through his hair. “Let's go.”

We keep our heads down and stick to people's overgrown yards, weaving behind the trailers and houses until we reach my place. Then we stand in the woods, waiting, watching. It's all kinds of uncomfortable. The temps are still high and the humidity makes me feel like I'm breathing through a wet towel. My hand is slick as I text Bren, telling her we're here and we're fine.

The immediate response?

Hurry it up

Not likely. We're deliberately early for the meeting. Griff and I wanted to be ahead of Carson, to let him come to us.

“I don't think Bren understands this is going to take a minute,” I say.

Griff looks at the text and shrugs. “When all this is finished, I bet she gets you one of those toddler leashes.”

“Hilarious.”

“It's funny because it's true.”

And it is, but I concentrate on the house so he can't see my smirk. As far as I can tell, the place is abandoned as
ever. The windows are dark and I don't see anyone circling the perimeter. The roofline is patchy, but seems to be clear of cameras.

He wouldn't have had the time to install pinhole cams, right? I guess if he had scoped the place before—

“Now or never, Wicked.” Griff takes a step toward the darkening yard. His hand brushes mine and my stomach flips.

Griff grins when I hesitate. “What? You wanted to live forever?”

I roll my eyes, but I follow him. The low sun turns our shadows long and lean as we head for the back door. I work the lock while Griff gives me directions—lift and turn, a little to the right, lift again . . . click.

And then we're in.

There's a heaviness to the air in the kitchen. I feel it as soon as we walk through the door. It's like a breath being held or a scream being swallowed. It's stuffy, dusty,
familiar
.

Everyone's house has a scent. Bren's house smells like fresh paint and orange cleanser. The house I grew up in?

It smells like decay and clings to me like flypaper.

Or maybe that's just the memories. They return with the smell and erupt under my skin. Michael shoved my mom into that wall. He threw her down those stairs. Gave her a concussion. Two days later, he did the same to me, and Lily cried. Right there.

And over there.

And there.

“You okay?” Griff's words slide against my ear in a whisper and I shiver. “Wick?”

“Yeah.” I shake myself, force my right foot forward, and then my left. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

We circle the downstairs together. Pretty easy since the place is so small. No one's hiding in the kitchen, living room, or dining room. It's empty and yet someone's been here.

“Are all the electrical switch plates down?” I ask as Griff nears me. There are gouge marks in the drywall. Whoever opened them was in a hurry and didn't care about being subtle.

“As far as I can tell, they are,” he says. “Weird, isn't it? Why would you take off the plates and not take them with you?”

“Why would you take the plates down in the first place?”

Griff shrugs, looks toward the hallway. “The kitchen cabinets were all open and there are scrapes on the shelving backs like someone took a screwdriver to them.”

It's warm in the house, but my skin is going colder and colder. “Same deal with the bathroom cabinets.”

“Kids having a party?”

“Nah, there'd be beer bottles or cigarette butts . . . I think someone was looking for something.”

“Like what?”

I shrug to hide my shiver. “Beats me. Ready to do the upstairs?”

We take the stairs as quietly as possible, dividing our attention between the windows, where we might be seen, and the bedrooms, where we might find someone. It's the same deal as downstairs. The bathroom cabinets are wide open, the vents are down, even the closet doors are unhinged and left on the floor.

There is a loose board in the closet my mom used. The fake wood paneling pushes aside to reveal a thin coating of insulation and there might—
might
—have been an indentation, like something had been stored there. But, whatever it was, it's long gone now.

Another one of my mom's secrets?

I'll never know. There were so many things we didn't say to each other and this one feels like it's just one more. I replace the panel and stand, forcing myself to move on.

Griff's in the bedroom Lily and I used to share. He's bent in half, checking an exposed floor vent. “I don't like this. I can't figure out the angle.”

“Me neither.” I check my phone. We're still fifteen minutes away from the meeting time, but it's weird Carson isn't already here. He would've wanted to scope the place as well.

Surely he wouldn't
trust us
?

I pocket my cell and look at Griff. “I mean, obviously, someone was looking for something, but what? And
why
? There's nothing here.”

Griff stands, cradling his right hand like it's bothering him. “Wick?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you . . . hear that?”