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  But then I see the picture near the end. The caption labels it as “Local Community Leaders Fight Crime,” and it’s your standard group shot with everyone lined up and grinning. I’m a little surprised to see Todd and Bren at the far right, all happy and smiley and at ease with each other, but this is the kind of community stuff Todd loves, so I guess it makes sense they would be there. Farther to the left is some guy I don’t recognize, but on the other side of him is Jim Waye.

  He’s in the dead center of the picture, with a game-show-host smile and one arm wrapped tightly around Tessa, who looks stiff and uneasy, her eyes slanting sideways like she’s looking for someone.

  I double-click the picture to enlarge it. Tessa’s looking at Carson. The detective—hands stuffed deep in his pockets and scowling—is standing on the far left. He seems oblivious to the photographer and is looking in Tessa’s direction as well. Coincidence?

  Maybe, until you think about how Tally said Carson kept coming by their house. I push closer to my computer and try to evaluate the detective’s expression.

  He looks pissed. Why? Maybe he doesn’t like Jim’s attention whoring, or maybe he’s just tired, or maybe he’s jealous someone else is touching Tessa.

  It’s this last thought that sticks.

  But just like Michael Starling, it’s not a good lead. I need something more. I close the picture and hit the back button until I’m on Tessa’s Facebook page again. There are no new posts to her wall, and for a long moment, I just read Jenna’s comment again and again.

  Maybe that’s why I open up the diary again—because there are no more options and I’m stuck. I push through, telling myself this is just another job—even though every word makes me wonder if this was the way my mom felt or, even worse, how Lily will react if he gets close to her.

  It takes me just under an hour to finish, and when I get to the end, I’m back to where I started. There’s nothing helpful. I think the guy is older. She wrote he was “worried about what he’ll lose” if anyone discovered them—that doesn’t sound like a guy from school. Then again, they started as friends and then it became more . . . and that makes him sound like a classmate.

  Tessa wanted him, but after they slept together, she slowly, very slowly, became afraid of him. She tried to end it, and that’s when the abuse turned violent. If he was older, that means it was rape. Even if they were the same age, it would still be abuse. Once she told him no, he began to hit her where no one would see the bruises.

  I lean back in my computer chair, stretching until my spine pops. I don’t really know what to do. I have no definite leads. I don’t know anything except that I’m dealing with a very specific kind of monster, one who hides his victims in plain sight.

  I need more information, but he’s so hidden how will I get it? How do I drive him out of the shadows?

  With bait.

  I pull closer to my computer, wiggling my mouse until the computer emerges from sleep mode. I’ve never hacked without a plan, and what I’m about to type is no plan. It’s not even a good idea. What I’m about to type is a bullet shot into the dark to see if someone else will shoot back.

  In other words, it’s a Hail Mary shot, and I hate those.

  I click on the Facebook comment box at the top of Tessa’s wall—say a quick apology to Mrs. Waye—and press my feet into the floorboards, because part of me is kind of scared I’m about to float away as I type:

  I know who killed me.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  .....................................................................

  After we did it, I ran.

  I ran and I ran and I ran. Must have put two miles in between us, but it didn’t

  matter. All that space and I still sobbed under a sky

  the same color as his eyes.

  —Page 33 of Tessa Waye’s diary

  Joe lives in the west end of Peachtree City in a subdivision called Wynnmeade, and until that dawn raid when the cops came for my dad and found Lily and me instead, we lived there too. It’s a funny place. Drive five minutes farther into the city and you’ll find multimillion-dollar homes. Here you can find Hispanic families living nine and ten to a house. You can buy meth from one of my dad’s dealers. While other kids went to camp, I learned to code. While other dads taught their daughters to play soccer, mine taught me to scam. I think the newspaper once called the neighborhood a “blight,” but Lily and I always thought of it as home.

  I’m almost at the front porch when the door opens. Joe Thompson, my dad’s best friend and my “mentor,” ambles onto the warped deck. The wooden planks creak under his feet. Big to begin with, Joe must have put on another fifty pounds since I last saw him. It’s like looking at a Baby Shamu crammed into human clothes.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Wicket Tate herself.”

  “Drop the act, Joe.” I stand at the bottom of the stairs and glare up at him, all attitude, even though I’m pretty sure I look like I was dragged through a bush. A five-mile hike down the bike paths in ninety-degree weather doesn’t do much for your appearance, but it beats the hell out of having to explain why you need your foster dad to give you a lift. “What do you want?”

  “To see if you would come when you’re called.”

  I don’t say anything, mostly because there isn’t anything to say. I hate the idea that he can yank me around like this, and he knows it.

  Joe rubs one hand over his mouth, but it does nothing to hide his grin. There’s something dark and satisfied sitting behind his eyes. He looks like he’s been fed with secrets. “I mean, you’re living in that big house, wearing all those fancy clothes. I just thought you might get the idea you’re too good for your own family.”

  Family. Great. If that doesn’t make me want to scrub myself with bleach, nothing will.

  “You been watching me, Joe?” I don’t know what disturbs me more—that he’s been spying on me or that I’ve been too distracted by Carson to notice.

  “Yeah, I have.” Joe’s daring me to smart off. I look at his catcher-mitt-sized hands, however, and decide to decline. The last time he smacked me, my ear hurt for a week.

  Joe looks me up and down again. You can see his thoughts ticker-tape through his eyes: different clothes, same girl. He thinks I’m a coward, and he’s probably right.

  “Come on in.” Joe palms the screen door wide and motions for me to pass beneath his arm. This is the part where I should march right on in like a good little hacker, but I don’t move. Not sure I can, actually. If I step across that threshold, I’ll step into my old life.

  Joe gives me a knowing smile. “Saw you out with that lady you’re staying with,” he says. “You two looked awfully comfortable together. Then there was that dark-haired girl you’ve been running around with. Has a smile so pretty I want to ruin it.”

  Bren and Lauren. Briefly, I’m ashamed of myself. I know better than to make friends. I know better than to let myself get close. I made myself vulnerable.

  I made Bren and Lauren vulnerable.

  I look up at Joe and realize I’m not stepping into my old life. I never left it. Whatever Joe wants, I will deliver.

  And we both know it.

  “Go wait in the living room,” he says as I pass. “Your timing couldn’t be better. We’re having a meeting. Heather’s already here, but the other guy’s late.”

  I duck under Joe’s arm and head for the living room. Inside, dead beer bottles and pizza boxes are scattered across the floor and a thin, blond girl—Heather, I’m guessing—is draped across the sole armchair. She looks up as I come in, and her eyes narrow.

  Guess we’re not going to be besties. I ignore her, turn for the couch, and have to shove a mix of nudie magazines and computer catalogs onto the floor so I have a place to sit. The fabric under my legs is alternately stiff and sticky. I pray to God that it’s just spilled soda or juice, because I do not want to contemplate the alternatives.

  “What do y
ou want, Joe?” I lean against the armrest, trying to get comfortable, and watch Joe hover near the front window. He looks nervous, and I don’t like that. It makes me start checking for the nearest exit.

  What’s he looking for? Is he worried about the cops? Carson? It would not go well for me to get busted while I’m here with Joe. The very idea makes my skin pop up in fresh sweat.

  “I can’t be gone for long, Joe, or else they get suspicious. What do you want?”

  “Don’t get your panties in a wad. The little shit will be here soon.”

  Charming. I wonder what my nickname is. Except I don’t really want to know. I’m sure it’s worse. I do, however, want to know what’s up with Joe’s new chick. Heather doesn’t look too good. She’s drawn herself into a tight ball. With her knees tucked up like that, I can see bones ghosting through her skin. Another junkie.

  I offer her my hand. “I’m Wicket Tate.”

  “I know,” she says, staring at my open palm like she might bite it. Behind us, I think I hear Joe snigger. I guess it is pretty funny. Me trying to make friends with a cracked-out junkie. I should know better, and I do.

  Just like I know better than to feel sorry for her.

  But I do anyway.

  Fine. Whatever. I lean my head against the faded couch cushions, force myself to take a long, deep breath. It actually works a little. My heart rate ratchets down a few notches. Norcut would be so proud. “So I’m guessing this has something to do with a job?”

  Joe snorts. “Aren’t you the genius?”

  Well, if we’re judging by the people in this room. “So when did we start discussing jobs in front of junkies?”

  Heather leaps to life, fingers arched into claws. “I ain’t no junkie!”

  “Is that what you tell yourself?” I stare at her. “Seriously?”

  “Shut your damn mouth, Wick.” Joe takes a step toward us, and I tense. With this much distance between us, I could easily outrun the fat bastard. I’ve been in Joe’s house enough to know that if I jump the couch and head for the kitchen, I can duck through the back door.

  But he’ll still know where to find me.

  Joe glares at me. “Heather’s straight up. She’s part of the job. A real necessary part of the job.” He jabs one finger in her direction. “Show her the voice, baby.”

  Heather sinks down into her armchair and clears her throat a couple of times. When she finally speaks up, her voice has lost all its raspiness, all its broken-off edges. Instead, it surfaces smooth as sun-warmed honey.

  “That was Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart,’ and I’m Larissa Miller signing off for the night. Be southern and be sweet.” Heather picks at a stain on her tank top with a shaking hand. “I’m gonna be a radio host, and then I’m going to get my own talk show. I’m gonna be just like Nancy Grace.”

  Well, dare to dream, Heather. I look at Joe. Is he thinking about doing a phone scam with this chick? He’s got to be high, but Joe interprets my shock as being impressed.

  “That’s right,” he says. “Heather’s got the voice of an angel. Ain’t nobody going to suspect her. So shut the fuck up, Wick.” Outside, there’s the low growl of a motorcycle pulling into the driveway. Joe stiffens and hurries to the window, pushing the dirty curtain farther aside. “Oh, good, the little shit’s here. This kid can hack almost as good as you, Wick.”

  Joe opens the door and I look up, ready to greet Little Shit. Maybe I’ll call him LS for short. Maybe I’ll call him Pequeño Shit to be multicultural.

  Except as soon as the kid walks in the door, I know I won’t. I’ve only ever called this guy by one name.

  Griff.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  .....................................................................

  Are there more like me? Has he had other girls?

  Or am I supposed to be special?

  —Page 23 of Tessa Waye’s diary

  I have to struggle not to gape. It’s just not possible. Griff can’t be a hacker. He’s too quiet. His grades are too good. He’s too . . .

  He’s too much like me. The realization stings. We’re hiding behind the same habits, the same mask. I make my living by looking underneath people’s surfaces, and yet I never suspected his.

  “Do you have the new firewall program?” Joe asks.

  Griff nods and pulls a jump drive out of his jeans pocket. He hands it to Joe, who plugs it into one of the laptops left on the coffee table, leaving the rest of us to stare at one another while he goes through the files.

  I guess this is the part where Griff and I are supposed to say hello. I can’t tell if he’s surprised to see me too. His face is blank, and he doesn’t say a word. This could be any other day except his eyes are all hard. They’re watchful, like he’s seeing me for the first time.

  Which, in a way, I guess he is.

  The idea makes me flinch. I can’t handle this, so I look at Joe instead. Joe and his stupid, simple scam. Except it’s not stupid or simple when you unravel how it works. The plan goes like this: Joe has set up a legitimate charity organization. It even has a legitimate website. He’s telling everyone he’s collecting money for tornado victims. Georgia’s been hit hard this spring. Scam-wise, this is smart on a couple of levels.

  One, he looks legit to the cops. They might suspect, but they’ll need more evidence to get a warrant, and evidence takes time. Speed is essential in a good credit card scam. By the time the police get what they need, we’ll be gone.

  Two, the scam taps into the marks’ pity. Almost everyone has seen the horrible pictures. Whole towns have been decimated. People have been left with nothing. Marks are always more likely to hand over credit card information if they think it’s for their neighbors.

  And with Joe’s official-looking website and charity paperwork, they’ll feel comfortable revealing their credit card information. That’s the beauty of the plan—he won’t have to steal their financial information. They’ll just give it to him.

  “I want to make sure we have distance on this. Heather will call them up and get their email information.” Joe shoves Heather aside and flops down in her chair, sweating. “It’ll reassure them that we’re not asking for money up front. We’ll direct them to the website and tell them to input their donations there.”

  And those are the donations that will be reported to the IRS, continuing Joe’s front as a legit charity. I rub the tight skin across my forehead. There’s a faint thumping behind my eyes, another headache begging to get in. Bravo, Joe. You’ve definitely stepped up from dealing meth and stealing ATM passwords.

  “And when we send them their email confirmations, when those rich bastards click to print off their donation receipt, you’ll have them, Wick,” Joe says, looking at me, his face all flushed.

  I don’t want to see it. I close my eyes, but it doesn’t help. His expression is tattooed on the backs of my lids. I know the look because I’ve had it myself. Joe’s thrilled to be hunting, and I hate, hate, hate that it’s something we share.

  “Griff here’s a whiz with firewalls,” Joe continues.

  Really? As good as he is with graphics? I open my eyes, take a shaky breath. I liked him better as an artist.

  “I can’t do this, Joe,” I say. “I’m already under surveillance.”

  “That thin cop?” Joe spits the question like Carson doesn’t matter and isn’t a danger. Joe has no idea, and that scares me even more.

  I focus on the skin between his eyes. “Yeah.”

  “He’s not a problem yet. No warrant, right? No security breaches?” Joe leans forward. Sweat is beading along his upper lip. “’Cause you of all people should know.”

  We stare at each other. I can see where this is headed. If I’m being honest with myself, I saw it before I even opened my mouth to object. I don’t know why I bother trying to get away from this crap. Once you become useful to the wrong sort of people, you’ll never get free. It doesn’t work
like that.

  “Well?” Joe’s getting pissed off now. His hands start to round into fists, and instinctively, I retreat. “Have the cops traced you?”

  My nervousness dissolves, and I almost laugh. As if. Then again, if I were to say yes and tell him I was compromised, I’d be useless to them. I’d be out.

  For a brief, shining second, I see myself away from all this, but reality swings into focus. I know too much to be let go. I’d go from compromised to liability, and looking at Joe’s fists, I know what happens to liabilities.

  I swallow hard. “No, they haven’t traced me.”

  “Then we’re good—at least for a little while longer.” Joe rests both hands on his belly. For a second, he looks like Buddha in a wife-beater. “Don’t go soft on me, Wick, or I’ll have to toughen you up. There are all sorts of ways to hurt you now, and I remember how your old man used to do it.”

  I nod. I want Joe to shut up, because I know where this is going. I was five when my dad destroyed my only doll, eight when he got rid of my dog, and ten when he broke Lily’s arm. It was all to punish me.

  And Joe watched all of it. We both know how this works. Love is leverage. Caring is dangerous. Dangerous for me, but also—mostly—for anyone I care about.

  “You might think because your dad’s on the run that you’re beyond his reach, but you never will be. He’ll always have me, and I’ll always have access to his people.”

  His people. His drug dealers. His junkies. People who are afraid of Joe and my dad and people who want their approval. My life is worth nothing to them. Bren and Todd and Lauren’s are worth even less.

  “I will fix you so you have nothing, understand?” Joe stares me down. “Do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” I manage, and if I didn’t know better, I would think Griff just stiffened. But I do know better. It’s stupid to think he cares.