Trust Me (19 page)

Carson's crammed into the space, knees tucked under his cheek, left arm lying in a horrible angle at his side. It's useless.

No. Not entirely useless.

Tap . . . tap . . . scraaaatttccchhhh
.

Carson's patting and then dragging the top of his class ring against an exposed pipe. That's what we were hearing.

“We need to call nine-one-one,” I whisper, and yet I'm not moving. Can't.

“Concerned for me now?” That horrible red smile widens, but each word is labored.

“Griff, please!” I can't look away and Carson chuckles like he knows.

“You feel guilty for what you did to me yet?” he asks.

I swallow. “You mean planting the explosives? You had it coming.”

“Does that make it right?” Carson inhales. The breath rattles and I cringe. “You're not the one who got branded.”

“Wasn't I?”

Carson doesn't answer, but there's another rattle deep in his chest. It's terrible and horrifying and more than enough to get me going. I rock back on my heels, looking for Griff. We have to call the police. We have to call an ambulance—Carson's fingers seize my wrist, haul me closer.

That's when I notice his jacket. It's the same leather jacket that guy from the SUV wore. Carson was at the car accident. Carson tried to kidnap me.

I gape. “It was you.
Why?
”

“Leverage. You know he's coming for you, don't you?” The detective smells of sweat and urine and blood, and when he closes his mouth to swallow, he gags. Carson's grip slackens. His eyes go flat, vacant.

“We need to call an ambulance,” I manage and I can barely squeeze the words past the roaring in my head. “We need help.”

“We need to get out of here.” Griff grabs my arm, bandages flexing. “An ambulance can't fix
dead
. Let's go!”

“We can't leave him like this!”

Griff tenses, swings his head to the left. “Did you hear that?”

He tugs at me again and I struggle to my feet. “I don't—”

I do. A car door just slammed. I suck in a breath as Griff disappears down the hallway again, sticking close to the wall.

Another slam. It's not from one of the neighboring houses though. It's closer. Like right out front.

My heart leaps behind my teeth as Griff spins, charges toward me. He hooks one arm around my waist and hauls me to him. “Run. It's Hart. He's found us.”

Griff shoves through the back door and I match him stride for stride. We dash across the yard and we're just past the tree line when I hear the first shout.

“Go!” Griff drops back a stride and pushes me forward. Two more shouts behind us. We tear through someone's yard and I hit their fence at a dead run, scramble over the top, and land with my legs pumping.

Another shout.

And a crash.

Are they coming after us? I glance behind me and nearly trip. No good. Keep going. I hurl myself across the next fence, my stomach scraping painfully across the chain link top.

My sneakers kick dirt into the air, but my lungs are already burning. I can barely breathe. I move my feet faster. I am
not
getting caught because I spent too many hours behind those damn computers instead of in gym class.

Griff grabs my arm and yanks me sideways, almost off my feet.

“But—” I splutter. The car is
that
way. Escape is
that
way.

Griff hauls me between two trailers, curves one hand against the top of my head, protecting me as we crawl underneath someone's porch, scramble until we reach the trailer's metal skirting. Griff leans against the trailer and tugs me closer and closer until I'm pinned between his knees, my shoulders against his chest. He braces one forearm along my collarbone, I press my head against his cheek, and in the shadows, we wait.

But we don't have to wait long.

Two men tear through the yard. They're fast black blurs against the humid green. Watching them through the spaces in the porch steps makes the whole thing feel like a movie.

Or a nightmare.

“We can't stay here,” I whisper. I'm breathing through my mouth because everything around us smells like damp dirt. It's like I tunneled inside a grave.

Griff's chin brushes against my hair in a nod. We can't look at each other. We can't take our eyes off the yard.

One of the men whips back through, stops, looks around. It's the town car driver—the second one, the one who showed up after Hart and I were attacked. He spends a moment watching the woods he just came from. Then he studies the yard.

Then he notices the trailers.

“Shit,” Griff breathes. “Come here.”

He leans to one side, taking me with him. Our hips and shoulders connect with the ground, and for a second,
I freeze. He's taking us
under
the trailer, shimmying us through a small space in the trailer's skirting. We push past spiderwebs, going deeper into the dark. The trailer's floor is inches above my head and something crunches under my hand. I whimper.

“You can do this,” Griff whispers. The words lift sticky hair from my neck, make me shiver even though it's stupid hot under here. There's a single patch of sunlight on the dirt and I focus on it as Griff repeats, “You can do this. You can do this. You can—”

The scuffle is soft, but it keeps getting closer. Footsteps. He's coming for a closer look.

Scuffle. Scuffle.

Stop
.

He's standing by the porch and I hold hold hold my breath. Is he bending down? Is he looking underneath? Does he see the hole we crawled into?

He does. A shadow slides into that square of late afternoon light and I grind my teeth together to keep myself from breathing. I desperately need to, but I don't dare. I don't trust myself not to gasp.

We wait . . . wait . . . He moves away and my brain goes fuzzy.

I turn my head toward Griff, rest my cheek against his shoulder, and feel everything in me come down one notch and then another. I close my eyes and we stay put, listening. The SD micro card's case is digging into my side and I let it, hoping the discomfort will give me something else to concentrate on beyond the fact that Hart is hunting me.

And Carson is involved.

And dead.

We give it twenty minutes before crawling toward the opening again. Griff goes first, waiting just beyond the line of sunshine as he listens. Finally, he looks at me. “Ready to go?”

“God, yes.”

We crawl out from the trailer and then scoot to the opening underneath the porch. Griff struggles to his feet, then offers me his forearm, drags me upright. I squint in the sudden sunlight and check my pockets again. The case is still there.

“That sucked,” I say and Griff laughs. He shakes dirt from his clothes, dashes one forearm over his head before turning to me. I've banged off most of the spiderwebs, but Griff keeps checking and checking me like he's convinced I missed something.

“I'm okay,” I tell him. “I'm okay.”

Griff finally looks at me. “I'm not.”

He touches his fingertips to my stomach and I look down. My T-shirt's torn and bloody. I examine the skin underneath, discovering two long, thin scrapes. I must've cut myself on that chain link fence.

Griff curves one bandaged hand against my cheek, and for an instant, I see Alex in him. It's in the way he's tired, beaten-down. I know it because I feel it too.

“What are we going to do?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I honestly don't know.”

Griff looks at me then looks away. He's waiting for me to say something and I have nothing. Well, that's not entirely true. I have pocketfuls of apologies, an entire lungful of excuses, a handful of enough bravery to say, “I don't have that answer, but I do know this: If every moment is a potential Big Moment, then this one's mine. I want you.”

Griff stares at me in a way that should make me back down and I don't. I've backed down too much to do it anymore. “I wanted you even when I couldn't say the words, Griff—
especially
when I couldn't say the words because they were too big and I didn't know how. I want you.”

I swallow and taste tears. Now would be a really great time for him to say something. Anything.

And he's still staring at me.

Until he jerks, blinks. “I want you too,” Griff says. “For what you are and what you will be.”

I stuff down a hysterical laugh—or was it a sob? Either way, my arms are around his neck and his arms are around my waist, and when Griff's mouth meets mine, I know there's no getting over this and I'm glad,
grateful
, because this is the boy who saw me when no one saw me, who knew I had good in me when I refused to believe it.

His hands frame my face, and panting, we break apart. “Text Bren, okay?” he whispers.

I nod, already reaching for my phone.

“Good. Let's get the hell out of here.”

Griff tangles his bandaged fingers in mine and we dart between the trailers, casting one quick glance down
the street before bolting for the abandoned field. The setting sun has turned the weeds to gold and we're running hard, but my brain's going even faster. With this information, I could leverage myself against Looking Glass. Norcut and Hart could take me down, but I could take them too. They wouldn't dare risk it. All I have to do now is return the money—or whatever's left of it—and we can call it even.

I'll make them call it even.

Satisfaction makes me run faster. We explode from the grass, sneakers hitting the pavement, just in time to see Bren's car approaching us. It's coming fast.

Is something wrong?

I squint. The shape . . . the shape is wrong. That's not Bren's car.

Click
.

I go cold and Griff's hand tightens. There's only one sound in the world like that: a gun. Slowly, we both turn, watch a figure push up from the ground and the thickening shadows.

“Do not move,” it says. Orange sunlight slants through the trees, hitting his shoulders . . . his face . . . his pistol.

“You drove me to Looking Glass,” I say.

“Turn around,” he says.

We do. A black BMW purrs toward us and I have to struggle not to sink to my knees. Every last bit of my energy is gone. That's not a town car, but it's close enough. Looking Glass always liked their shiny, black vehicles.

The car pulls to a stop a few feet from me and I watch
the door open. The driver stands up, walks toward us.

Dark suit. Dark sunglasses.

He pulls them down with a single finger and an animal howl fights into my mouth. It's not Hart.

It's Michael.

“Hello, daughter.”

I take a step back and cold metal presses against my skull.

“Don't even think about it,” the guy says, nudging me forward again.

“This feels familiar.” Michael taps his knuckles against the Beemer's hood. “How're you doing, Griffin?”

Griff doesn't answer and Michael walks around the car, stops so close I can smell the sweetness of his aftershave. “You two look awfully close for someone who's taken up with a doctor's son.”

“It's not like that,” I say.

“Pity.”

“Let him
go
.”

Michael faces me. “Gladly. I'm not here for him anyway.”

Chills ripple through me. “What do you want?”

“You, but I admit he is a problem.” Michael's attention drags to Griff and lingers. “Earlier, it was useful having him with you, made texting you so much easier, but now . . . ?”

“You have Carson's cell?” I ask.

“I'm presuming you found my gift, yes?”

I don't answer, but Michael nods like I did. “Good,” he says. “I went to a bit of trouble to kill him, but I won't say I didn't enjoy it. I'm also presuming you found that micro card. Hold on to it. We're going to need it.”

“You need to leave.” Griff eases closer to me, and Michael's guy switches the gun from my head to Griff's temple. “We're about to have a ton of witnesses.”

“‘A ton'?” Michael laughs. “Or
one
extremely stressed lady? Your Bren is still miles away. Got caught on her way here and is getting a ticket for failure to maintain lane and speeding.”

I swallow. “From the same officer who got you out of jail?”

“No, but nice guess. I use a variety of contacts. It's important to give back to the community, you know?”

Michael glances at me and I flinch, biting down on my tongue.

“But it's not like we have time to mess around,” he continues. “We're leaving, Wicket. Get in the car.”

Griff stiffens. “Wick.”

“No,” I say.

Michael's smile slings wider and he nods to his guy. The man steps closer to Griff and we both tense. “This is how it's going to go,” Michael says. “In return for good behavior, Wick, I'm going to let Martin here knock your boyfriend out. He'll go down. You'll come with me, and in a few hours, he'll wake up with a hell of a headache.”

And we'll be God knows how far away
. I look at Griff.
We'll be long gone, but he'll live
.

The relief is a rush until I realize Michael will also have leverage on me. Forever.

Our eyes meet and he smiles like he knows what I'm thinking.

“How do I know you're telling me the truth?” I ask Michael at last.

Griff's eyes go wide. “I'm not leaving you alone with him!”

Michael laughs. “You
don't
know that I'm telling the truth, but I am. Martin”—Michael gestures to his gunman—“could've killed him when you two came out of the field, but he didn't because I told him not to. Consider it a show of good faith. I know how you feel about the boy and I'm going to let him live.”

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Your cooperation.” Michael bends down, swipes a long piece of grass from the ground, and begins to shred it. “We have things to discuss.”

My head goes light, woozy. I don't want to discuss anything with him.

“Let him,” Griff whispers and I whip toward him, convinced I couldn't have heard right. Michael and Martin both stiffen, straining to hear Griff's words. “Let him hit me,” he repeats under his breath. “Wherever he takes you . . . I will find you.”

“I'm so sorry,” I whisper.

Griff shakes his head. “I trust you.”

My breath hitches, and for a very long moment, all I can do is stare at him. “I love you,” I whisper and the words should feel like a bomb because I withheld them for so long, but they're suddenly easy to say, like they belonged to him all along.

“I love you too.” Griff's words are a confession and a promise. Now I just have to be brave enough to see this through. I swallow, swallow again. I'm struggling to breathe, but I force myself to look at Michael. I nod.

“Good,” he says. “Do it farther in, Martin. I want Bren to have trouble finding him.”

I wince. It's another delaying tactic. When Bren finally gets here, she'll wait and wait, never knowing Griff's unconscious body is only a few strides away.

Griff keeps his eyes on me as he backs into the waist-deep grass. “This far enough for you?” he asks finally.

“Watch your tone.” Michael flicks the grass bits from his hands. “It'll do. Come here, Wick.”

I turn, take an uneven breath, and force myself forward. One step. Two steps. There's the most awful thud
behind me and immediately a rush of grass as Griff hits the ground.

Michael extends one hand, palm up. “Cell.”

I give it to him. Michael pops the battery off the back and smiles at me as he pitches the pieces in two different directions. “Now we don't have to worry about being interrupted.”

Or being saved.

“See how pleasant things can be when you cooperate?” Michael grins and I follow him to the car.

We leave Peachtree
City by back roads. Michael drives. Martin sits behind me, keeping the gun trained on the back of my head. I try to concentrate on the passing houses and cars instead, but I don't recognize any of the surroundings. Thanks to the navigation system, I can tell we're headed south, but beyond that it's just long stretches of darkness punctured by random porch lights. I have no idea where we're going, but then the car's headlights hit a reflective green sign and I have to press both feet into the floorboard. “Are you taking me to the airport?”

Michael makes a left, maneuvering us down a long, paved drive. “Aren't you the smart one?”

Not nearly smart enough. I can't think past the whistling in my head. I put both hands in my lap, twisting my fingers together. It's one thing to drive me somewhere. It's totally different to fly. Griff won't find me. By the time he
wakes up, I could be halfway across the country.

So what am I going to do? Run for it?

Impractical. We're at least two miles off the main road and the woods will slow me down. Even if I did reach the road, the likelihood of flagging down a car is pretty much nil so that leaves . . .

Hell if I know.

It's a small airport—we're passing mostly private planes, puddle-jumper stuff. Michael drives us to the tarmac's far end and parks by the very last hangar.

“Get out,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt.

I fumble with mine. My fingers have gone numb.
All
of me has gone numb. Michael keeps one hand on my arm as Martin walks away, heading into the darkened hangar. We follow and my eyes adjust slowly. I can see shapes on either side of us. Boxes? Equipment?

Farther ahead, it's easier to see what's waiting under the moonlight: a plane.

I don't understand. Is Michael escaping for good? If he is, why would he take me with him?

“What do you want?” I ask.

“To talk.”

“About
what
?” I turn and it's a mistake. Michael's in my space now, breathing the same air. He traces one finger along my cheekbone and I struggle not to shudder.

“All this time,” he says softly. “They told you I wanted to kill you, right? That you were mine? That I knew you had the money and I would come for you?”

I nod. I'd forgotten the sound of his voice, how smooth it was, how every word felt like the promise you'd always wanted. He used that voice with addicts looking for a fix and with my mother when she was looking for an escape.

“Norcut and Hart were half right,” Michael continues. He pulls me deeper into the hangar by my elbow. We walk just outside of the moonlight as Martin jogs back and forth ahead of us, readying the plane. “I was coming for you. You
are
mine. You aren't just my daughter. You're my creation, my right hand. But I knew you didn't have the money.”

“How's that?”

“Because I did.”

“
You
have the money?”

He smiles. “Aside from that minor lapse with your sister, I've always had the money. I stole it months and months ago—just before my first arrest. Why do you think Norcut was always so quick to keep any appointment with you? Why do you think Carson stayed so close to you and your sister?”

“Because he wanted to arrest you.”

Michael gives me a pitying look. “Or is that just what he told you? I didn't expect for your sister to find the money, but thankfully, I knew exactly where she would put it so I waited. Then I took it back from your account. I needed to panic them. Fear makes for an easier target and I knew the dear doctor was seriously terrified when she started having my old contacts killed.”

“They were going to
kill
me
over that money.” I take a
deep breath, smelling fuel and oil. “If I don't deliver, they'll kill Lily and Bren. You have to return it.”

“No, I don't. By the time I'm finished, there won't be a Looking Glass. I created it and I can destroy it and they know that. They fear me.”

“
You
created Looking Glass?”

Michael shrugs. “What did that bitch tell you? That I worked for her? Bay found us clients. Norcut found children with the right skills and Carson handled security. Eventually, Hart became the face of Looking Glass. He has that . . . approachable look people love so much. Hart helped Bay find the right companies to hire us and I test-drove several of our”—Michael grins, his teeth flashing in the moonlight—“sales pitches? You remember that last scam before I was arrested?”

My stomach squeezes. “Yeah, we were asking people for donations and then stealing their credit card information.”

“And it worked beautifully. We took money from the marks and then we took money from the credit card company.”

“You mean you sold the credit card company a solution to a problem you created. They never realized they were paying the people who ripped off their clients in the first place.”

“Nicely done, wasn't it?”

I stare at the plane waiting for us on the tarmac, force my heartbeats to slow. I've been working for Looking Glass
for years, I just never realized it.

“All this time,” I say, dragging my head up to meet his eyes. “All this time when Carson was chasing you, it wasn't because of the drugs or the credit card scams. It was because of Looking Glass. It was because of the money.”

Michael nods. “They wanted to cut me out and he made it happen. Or he tried. Carson was supposed to tip me off about that raid and he didn't. He thought—they all thought—by catching me in the thick of it, I would go away for a very, very long time. One less person to split the profits with.”

The raid. The one Griff kept me from, the one where Joe and Michael were caught, and I thought my father was gone for good.

There's a sharp clang behind us as Martin unhooks the plane's tie-downs and flings them to the tarmac. Michael's watching him, but his eyes are glazy. “Then Norcut sicced Carson on Bay. And what a beautiful job you did on that judge for the good detective too. Well done. Would've worked out beautifully for Carson if Norcut and Hart hadn't turned on him, gotten that boy of hers to plant those bombs. He must've been desperate for leverage when he tried to kidnap you. Something to remember here, Wick. You can't trust anyone except yourself . . . and me.”

“Then why were you chasing me?”

“Because we're family. We're supposed to be together.” His grin is boyish and sickly in the pale light. “Yes, I was pursuing you, but I never wanted to kill you. Ever.”

“Throwing me around was what then? Because you love me?”

The smile drains from his face. “Because I want you to become the person you're meant to be. I saw what was in you at an early,
early
age. I saw what you would be capable of, but it wasn't until you asked me to kill someone that I knew you were ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To join me.”