Trust Me Read online

  I matter. Not what I can do. Not what I can provide. Just me. I’ve wanted to hear that from him. It’s another realization that I didn’t know I’d buried.

  “Why would someone like me ever matter to someone like you?” I’ve asked him variations of this before and always gotten some glib answer. I could use glib right now. Maybe it’s the windows, maybe it’s my dad, but it feels like darkness is closing in all around me.

  Milo sucks in his lower lip, releases it slowly. “Because you’re broken.”

  “That’s not any reason to want someone.”

  “It is though. Because I’m broken too.” He angles closer. “Maybe my scars recognized yours. Maybe pain is like a magnet and it pulled us together.”

  I smile and Milo sees it, bends to me. One hand cradles the back of my head. One hand touches the edge of my jaw. It’s so gentle . . . it makes me grab him harder.

  Milo kisses me like he’s missed me, and I hold on to him like I’m lost.

  It takes Hart two days to coordinate the security side. Norcut doesn’t loop me in, and I’m half expecting a team of super-conspicuous rent-a-cops to meet me in the elevator lobby, but it’s just Hart. For the first time, his suit’s gone, replaced by pressed jeans and a tucked-in polo shirt.

  “What?” he asks as I come closer. “I wanted to fit in.”

  “Oh yeah, totally.” I’m nodding like that makes sense, but I can’t stop staring at the tiny monogram on his right pocket. A monogram. That’s fitting in.

  Hart punches the down button. “Do you need anything else?”

  “Me.” Milo appears at the hallway turn. Sunlight slants behind him, turning his body into a shadow. Milo’s walk is long and loose and doesn’t stop until we’re toe to toe. “She needs me.”

  I cock one eyebrow, but Milo only leans closer. The elevator dings. “After you,” I say as Hart swears under his breath. When we reach the parking deck, there’s another black town car waiting for us, running. The driver tosses Hart the keys, ducking his head lower as he passes us.

  It feels weird, like all the support staff isn’t supposed to acknowledge our existence. I can’t figure out why that would be a rule.

  “You go in the front with me,” Hart says, hiking a thumb in my direction. “You’re in the rear, Milo. I can trust you to watch for a tail, right?”

  “A what?”

  “You’re not funny.”

  Milo smirks. “She thinks I’m funny.”

  And it’s sad, but I do. I hop into the front seat before either of them can see my smile though. Hart flips on a pair of sunglasses and floors it across the parking garage. The gate’s barely up before he’s rolling the car through.

  We’re doing sixty on the side street. By the time he reaches the interstate, we’re clipping along at seventy . . . and then eighty. It’s hard to gauge Hart’s mood, but judging from the way he glances from rearview mirror to side-view mirror, he’s expecting company.

  “Are you worried something’s going to happen again?” I ask, and it’s a little softer, a little more scared than the way I’d planned it in my head.

  Hart glances at me, tries for a smile. “I’m always worried something’s going to happen again. I don’t think you should be doing this.”

  “Why?”

  Hart’s fingers flex. “It could set you off,” he says at last, and there’s something about the way his tone tips lower that catches me.

  He sounds honestly concerned.

  “I promised you we would move forward, Wick. This is going backward. This is stupid if Michael’s trying to draw you into the open.”

  I nod. “But you’re doing it anyway.”

  “She’s the boss,” Hart says, lifting his eyes to the rearview mirror. Is he looking behind us? Or at Milo? I can’t tell.

  “Dr. Norcut said Looking Glass was providing security to my family. Do you know anything about it?”

  “Yeah, I handled it.”

  “So . . . could you tell me what you organized?”

  “Worried I don’t know what I’m doing?”

  Yes and it’s unfair of me. He probably knows way more than I do. He damn sure has better resources. But it’s my family, my sister, and I need to say something and I have nothing.

  Hart sighs. “It’s fine, Wick. I promise. If we have time after this, I’ll drive you by, okay?”

  I nod.

  “Good. I want this to be fast. You know where you want to look, right?”

  “Not really.” And I hate admitting it. “I figure we could just scope the whole place together. I know it’s pretty broad, but there are three of us and we know how people hide stuff. If the message was sent from Joe’s, maybe the equipment will still be there.”

  One corner of Hart’s mouth tilts in a smile. “Isn’t that the truth.”

  “Hey, Hart.” I push against the seat and keep my eyes trained on the passing buildings. “If this goes well, can I call my sister?”

  I can’t tell if Hart looks at me, but judging from the silence, I’m guessing he does.

  “Find something good for Norcut, Wick, and there’s no telling what you’ll get in return.”

  16

  Joe Bender lives—lived—in a neighborhood on the edge of Peachtree City, a bedroom community mostly known for golf courses and BMWs. The subdivision has cheap houses, cheaper trailers, and plenty of kids desperate for work, which made it pretty much perfect for Michael and Joe to set up shop. The newspapers called us “a blight.” Everyone else called us “trashy.” For Lily and Griff and me? It was home.

  Joe lived in one of the few proper houses, a leftover from when the builder thought the neighborhood would grow into more than trailers. I spent a fair amount of time there—sometimes working for my dad, sometimes working for Joe. He lived there for as long as I can remember.

  And now the house is empty.

  Hart parks the town car one street over and we walk the rest of the way, plenty of time for me to reexamine the cracked sidewalks and abandoned trailers. I haven’t been outside in days. It feels good. Better than good. The air smells like freshly mowed grass and sunshine heats my skin.

  “This is it,” I say, nodding my head toward the faded blue house on our left. Hart’s hands go to his sides—adjusting a sports coat that isn’t there?—before trudging up the walk. After a deep breath, I follow.

  In some ways, it’s the best the house has ever looked. When Joe lived here, the yard was orange dirt and dead cars. Now . . . well, it’s still orange dirt, but the cars are gone and you can see the front better. The windows are boarded and there’s a “No Trespassing” sign hanging off the sloped front porch.

  Hart takes the porch steps two at a time and checks the door. Locked. His hand goes to his pocket, retrieves a palm-sized lock pick. The slender metal arm slides seamlessly into the keyhole and Hart adjusts it with flicks of his wrist until we all hear that unmistakable click.

  “Awfully good at that,” Milo says.

  Hart shrugs. “Setups like these are easy.”

  Except, when he turns the knob, the door won’t budge.

  “You have to put your shoulder to it,” I say, stepping closer. “It sticks—”

  Hart shoves the door once and it pops open, yawning dusty, hot air over us.

  Milo groans. “Don’t you just love field trips?”

  I follow Hart over the threshold and into the foyer. Milo tests the light switches, and after a beat, the electricity clicks on. Not that it makes much difference. Even with the overhead lights, the whole place is awash in grays and browns, and somehow this feels even more familiar. Joe used to keep the lights low to conserve energy for the computers and servers.

  I shift, swallow. I used to stand right here to get my orders.

  It feels like a lifetime ago.

  “I’ll check this side,” Milo says and looks at Hart. “You do the bedrooms?”

  “No.” I push between them. “I’ll get the bedrooms. You guys take the other side of the house. We did almost all our w
ork in the kitchen and living room. I’ll meet you there after I do my sweep.”

  Milo shrugs and follows Hart. The house’s two bedrooms and one bathroom line a narrow hallway to my left. I pick the first door and spend several minutes going through the room, finding nothing. Same deal with the bathroom.

  Surprisingly, and thankfully, I’ve never been in the last bedroom until now. It was Joe’s. It even still smells a little like him: old pizza and sweat and a touch of some cologne that always made me gag. I’m so busy thinking about the stench, I don’t even notice the balled-up sleeping bag until I’m already through the door.

  My stomach squeezes. Squatter? It’s possible. I toe the edge and the navy-blue bag unravels a bit, revealing the plaid lining. Looks awfully clean for a homeless person, which could mean it belongs to whoever sent me those viruses. Could the same person be hitting Looking Glass’s firewalls as well?

  Cold sweat pops up between my shoulder blades and my next thoughts leap to Michael and cling, but that’s stupid. No matter what Hart or Norcut think, my father wouldn’t hang around here for long—definitely not long enough to hit the firewalls. It’s too risky, too obvious.

  But someone’s been here. I drag the sleeping bag away from the wall and uncover a box of PowerBars and an empty bottle of water. Someone’s definitely been here and they’ve been staying for a while. The question is why.

  I stand, study the single window at the back of the bedroom. It’s next to the folding door closet, and the closer I get, the more I realize something’s hissing.

  No, that’s not quite right; something’s whistling. The window. From this side of the house, I’m facing the backyard now and there’s a breeze squeezing in from outside. I brush my hands off and check the sill. Sure enough, there’s a hole in one corner of the glass pane, just large enough to fit my thumb into. The wind sweeps higher, a reedy whine that instinctively makes me jam one finger in the hole.

  The screech stops. If I rented this place that would be the first thing I’d fix. And that’s when I realize the window’s not just loose. It’s open.

  I curl my finger and lift; the frame follows me easily. Soundlessly. Warm spring air pours into the room. I take a deep breath . . . hold it, eyes traveling past the grass-pocked backyard.

  You know, between the shielded yard and the open window, someone could slip in and out of here with very little notice. If you wanted to hide something . . . if you wanted to hide . . . chills scatter across my skin.

  I cock my head, listening. I’m not the only thing breathing in here.

  Slowly—too slowly—I turn. The bedroom’s empty, but the closed closet to my right? I watch it, wait, and the silence stretches. Everything’s exactly as it should be, but this doesn’t feel right. I retreat one step and then another, my hand extending behind me, groping for the door.

  Another exhale. It is coming from the closet. I didn’t imagine it.

  I’m not alone.

  “Who’s—”

  Something heavy drops behind me. The breathing wasn’t coming from the closet. It was coming from above.

  One arm snakes around my waist; a hand covers my mouth—and presses down.

  No gloves this time.

  I pry my teeth apart to bite him and there’s a hiss in my ear.

  “It’s me.”

  I register the words the same time I register the smell: grass and the faintest scent of gasoline.

  It’s Griff.

  17

  He releases me and I spin around, face him. For three whole seconds, I stare . . . he stares . . . and then Griff swallows, eyes still speared to me. I take a step forward. He takes a step back. We both stop.

  “How did you find me?” I breathe and he retreats again.

  “Wicked . . .”

  The nickname forks lightning across my skin and I shiver. He looks rough. Griff’s always been thin, wiry, but there’s a hardness to his muscles now. There are smudges under his eyes and his T-shirt is worn through in two places, revealing slivers of skin across his lower abs.

  “He’s out,” Griff whispers, the words escaping on a hard exhale. “Michael.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s still here. He’s close.”

  “I know.”

  Griff shifts from foot to foot. Is he hesitating to come closer? Or is he holding himself back? “Your handle popped up. I know you’re working. What’s going on?”

  “It’s complicated.” I swallow. “What are you doing here? Are you sending me those viruses?”

  Griff’s face screws up in confusion. “What?”

  “Wick?”

  Blood thumps in my temples. Milo.

  “Wick?”

  Closer now. Oh shit, he’s headed this way. I whip toward Griff.

  “I’m sorry, Wicked. For everything.”

  I blink. There’s white all around Griff’s eyes now, but he doesn’t look away from me and I can’t look away from him. If he doesn’t go, they’ll catch him. They’ll know there’s more to him than just a guy I was dating. Milo’s sneakers scuff closer and I wave one hand toward the closet.

  “Go,” I snarl under my breath.

  Another beat of hesitation and Griff steps to the side, disappearing into the closet. There’s a faint thump—his sneakers hitting the wall?—and then nothing.

  Until Milo swings through the bedroom door.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Milo saunters in, gaze catching on the window, on the closet. Does it linger? No. No, he’s looking at the open attic door above my head now. “Anything up there?” he asks.

  Not anymore. I shake my head. “I pulled the door down just to look.”

  We both stare into the darkened opening. The ladder’s still pulled up, no sign that Griff was ever there. I shrug, glance at Milo, and realize he’s studying me.

  “You okay?” he asks again.

  “Yeah, fine. Look what I found.” I nudge my chin toward the sleeping bag and Milo’s eyes go bright. He pulls the sleeping bag apart again and checks the PowerBar box.

  “Whoever it is, they’re planning on returning.”

  “Unless we were spotted coming inside.”

  “True.” Milo scowls, and somehow it makes him look prettier. His attention drifts past me to the closet. He stands and his hands flex once. “Did you check in there?”

  “Yes, it’s empty. Let’s go.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I force a cocky smile, but my chest stays two sizes too small and my fingers still ache for a boy that isn’t mine. “What’s the opposite of full?”

  “Empty.”

  “Then, yeah, I’m sure.” Okay, that’s probably closer to bitchy than cocky but I can’t seem to stop. Griff is hiding in the closet, I’m no closer to finding Michael, and my phone call to Lily is slipping away. “This place is worse than I remember,” I add, concentrating on rerolling the sleeping bag for the second time.

  “No joke.” Milo grins. “I can’t believe you lived around here.”

  “Says the boy who stayed in the world’s most disgusting restaurant.”

  “Well, I made up for it in other ways.” I stand and Milo’s in my space now, my breasts brushing his chest. “Want me to remind you?” he asks.

  Yes. No. I want to go. Get out of here. It would take so little for Milo to catch Griff. And Milo . . . poor Milo. I’m looking at him and my brain is brimming with all the possibilities of who’s been here.

  And who’s here now. What the hell is Griff doing?

  I grab Milo’s hand, tug him toward the door, but Milo shakes me loose, cups both hands around my face, and tilts my mouth toward his. “I’m very, very good at reminding you.”

  His lips brush mine and I shiver.

  “Sorry,” I manage as Milo lets me go. “I’m sorry.” My hand connects with the wall and I shrink into it. “Sorry, it’s just this place. I hated it here. Still do.”

  “Then I’m sorry we had to come.”

  Milo actually sounds like he’s sorry too and it cracks s
omething in my chest. I don’t meet his eyes. The regret in his voice makes me feel worse.

  “This is what we agreed, wasn’t it?” I ask. “I’m supposed to play along.”

  “I want what’s best for you.”

  Now he’s got me. My eyes swing to his. Stick.

  Milo smiles. “And we’re clear here? Are you sure you looked around enough?”

  “Yeah.” I grab Milo’s hand and pull him with me into the hall, away from the bedroom, away from Griff. “There’s nothing here for us.”

  We find the computer setup in the kitchen and load everything into Hart’s car. I don’t know how much good it’s going to do us—the tower case is rigged with trip switches to destroy the hard drive if we tamper with it—but Hart keeps his promise anyway and drives us past my house. I don’t know what I was hoping for. To see Lily in the yard? To pass Bren driving by? I don’t get either of those things. The house looks like it always does: nicely mowed yard, closed-up garage. There’s a new flower wreath on the door and I can’t help wondering if Bren noticed the equally new nail hole in the mahogany wood. It was courtesy of Jason Baines, a hammer, and a dead rat.

  The gesture was meant for me, a reminder of what happens to snitches, and now all I can think about is Griff and what Michael will do if he catches him.

  Hart doesn’t slow as we drive past, but when our car reaches the corner, he nods toward a telephone repair truck parked at the curb. “Those are our guys.”

  Our guys. Like I’m one of the team.

  “It doesn’t look like much.” I twist in my seat, studying the panel van as we pass. “How do I know anyone’s in there?”

  Not a team player comment, but it’s out there now and I’m not taking it back.

  Hart’s teeth grind briefly together. “The same way you know if we get sideswiped again, I’ll haul your ass out of there.”

  I turn around and tuck both hands under my legs. “Sorry.”

  “I’ll get over it.”

  “Stop worrying, Hart.” Milo’s voice is almost singsong. “No one knows she’s out—unless you haven’t been doing your job.”

  Hart makes a right, turning us away from the neighborhood and toward the interstate. “We’ll switch the van before it gets too obvious. The security system has been upgraded and we have someone shadowing your sister at activities. We know what we’re doing.”