Remember Me (10 page)

Bren sniffles and I flinch. There's no way I can leave now. I force myself into the kitchen, hop onto a bar stool. “Hey.”

“Wick!” Bren swipes at her eyes. “You scared me!”

“Sorry.” And I have to bite my lip to keep from repeating it. There's something I need to say here and I don't know what it is. My adoptive mom isn't crying, but she has been. Her eyes have red smeared around their edges. “You okay?”

“Yes. No.” Her gaze searches the ceiling, comes down to meet mine. “I will be. I had to stop by Lily's school today and I ran into another mother.”

It's the way she says “mother” that makes me wince. I know where this is headed and I want to tell Bren to stop, to not tell me because I don't want her to have to relive it. Only there's no way to say that without sounding bitchy.

Or maybe it's because it feels like exposing her marriage's rotten underbelly is something else I've done to her. I've lied. I've hidden things. I've pretended to be someone I'm not.

She didn't deserve any of it.

“She was
so
nice,” Bren continues. “We talked for a few minutes because her daughter cheers with Lily. She had already invited me to come to lunch with some of the other moms and I thought she was lovely until they called my name . . . and she just . . . shuddered. She looked at me like she finally realized who I was,
what
I was, and she was horrified.”

“It wasn't your fault.” It was mine.

No. It was Todd's.

“I trusted him,” Bren adds, the words piling together in her rush. “I loved him. I should have kept you safe and I didn't.”

“It turned out okay. No one got hurt.”

“You did.”

I start to say that ten stitches and a concussion isn't really getting hurt—it isn't permanent—but then Bren will bring up the nerve damage in my arm. No matter how many times I tell her it's fine, she doesn't believe me. It's the only lie I've ever told I couldn't get her to buy.

“You were worth it,” I blurt. It's true. Maybe we
do
have a fairy-tale ending because in every fairy tale there's always a villain and ours was Todd.

I'd sound like a lunatic if I say that, so instead I add, “Please stop blaming yourself.”

“I can't . . . you should probably know . . . child services is making a few inquiries.”

My heart double-thumps. “Why? The adoption papers are final.”

“Apparently, there have been some complaints? I don't know what they call it. Accusations? There's a social worker who may want to talk to you about my . . . skills.”

Not if I get to Carson first.
I know what this is. It's a reminder, a warning of what's to come. He's screwing with her to remind me to hurry it along. I will fix it for her. I will make it go away. I will make all of it go away.

I want to tell her and I can't.

We stare at each other until Bren turns to the oven—either because she can't look at me anymore or she just wants the conversation to end—and watches her soufflé through the window. “You remember Lily has a cheer competition this weekend, right?”

No, actually, and I'm pretty sure that makes me a rotten sister, but I'm grateful for the conversation turn. Heartfelt confessions always make me feel like a fat man's sitting on my chest.

“Yeah, 'course I remember. It's downtown or something.”

“Birmingham.” Bren straightens, checks the cookbook. “Would you like to come?”

Under different circumstances, yeah I would. Lily loves cheering and she loves it even more when I come. I just can't afford the time away, not if Carson's going to play these games.

“I wish. I have a history project that's really kicking my butt.” I pause, knowing I'm pushing it with what I'm about to ask. “Do you mind if I stay home?”

“We'll be gone for the whole weekend.” Bren's statement curls up at the end, fitting in
Are you sure?
and
She'll have every light in the house on
behind the words. I should probably be offended. All I can think about is the windfall. Two whole days. It might be all it would take. A smile slings across my lips.

“School's important.” Bren touches her fingers to the cookbook like she's reading the text, but her eyes never move. “You can come to the next meet. . . . Are you sure you'll be okay alone?”

She picks her way so carefully through the question, it sounds practiced, like this was expected. Maybe it was. After Todd's attack, all Bren wanted to do was keep Lily and me close to her. If she had her way, we would both be homeschooled now and travel everywhere with her. She's trying really hard to give us space.

I'm manipulating that.

I scrape my fingernail against the counter, not meeting Bren's eyes. “Yeah, I'll be fine. I have a few school things that I can take care of while you're gone.”

“You sure?”

“It's no big deal.”

I slide off the bar stool, stop dead. “Bren? How did that work? When you paid Bay to push through our adoption papers?”

Now she's not looking at me. “I worked with his assistant, the girl who died.”

There's something to that, a taste behind my teeth I can't name . . . yet.

“You know you can't say anything about that, right, Wick?”

“I won't. I would never.” I hesitate. We have nothing left to talk about, but I feel bad leaving her.

“Are you going to be okay?” I ask.

Bren goes so still I know she's about to lie. “Of course, sweetheart, everything's fine.”

And we're both so good at this, I almost believe her. I go upstairs, turn on all my lights, text Carson to call off his dogs, watch my window
and
my air vent.

Until midnight, when Griff climbs in from the dark.

10

“What are you doing?” I whisper. I can't stop my smile though, and when Griff sees it, he grins.

“Your light was on and I wanted to see you.”

It makes everything in me do a stupid wiggle dance. “See me for what?”

“Midnight picnic.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” We're kneeling on the floor beneath my window, knees almost touching, and Griff nudges closer, mouth brushing mine. It makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle to life.

“Sneak out with me,” he whispers against my lips.

I nearly laugh. Hells no. There's no moon tonight and two of the streetlamps are dead. Problem is, if I say no, I'd have to explain. How do you say “I'm afraid of the dark” without sounding like a two-year-old?

“I dare you.” His words curl through me, hit bottom.

“You're on.”

Griff blinks, smiles. I've surprised him. I've surprised myself.

I shove my feet into sneakers and go to my bedroom door, listen for Bren. I'm pretty sure she went to bed ages ago.

“We'll be back in an hour,” Griff says. “She'll never know.”

I follow him to the window; take a steadying breath as I look down into the shadows.

“You want me to go first?” he asks. “Catch you as you come down?”

I'm not sure which is worse: Griff thinking I'm afraid of falling or Griff knowing I'm afraid of the dark. I roll my eyes. “What? You think this is the first time I've snuck out of my bedroom?”

He grins and I kick my legs over the sill, digging my sneakers into the nearest tree limb. It holds under my weight and I scramble to the ground in only a few seconds. Maybe not the most graceful thing I've ever done—

Griff drops down next to me, chest skimming my arm, heat rolling off him. If I lean forward, we could kiss.

“Nicely done, Wicked.”

My mouth goes dry. “Where are we going?”

“You'll see.”

Ends up, not very far. Griff takes me to the kiddie park near my house, where we sit on the swings and eat cold Chick-fil-A sandwiches. I twirl my swing in circles, noticing how the shadows suddenly don't feel so smothering. Maybe it's Griff. Maybe he chases away my dark.

“What brought this on?” I ask.

A pause. “This is the kind of stuff I always wanted to do with you.”

I dip my eyes away from his, end up looking at the curve of skin above his collar. It makes my mouth go hot.

“What do you want, Wick?”

You.
But I don't say it because that's not what he means. Griff is talking about school and college and life after college. He's talking about all the things he has figured out.

And I don't have a clue about. I can't think that far ahead. I wasn't supposed to have this life. Tates don't go to college. They go to jail.

Or the morgue.

I shrug, look away. “What do
you
want?”

“To keep drawing. To afford painting. SCAD. For food stamps to be part of someone else's life. For . . . it isn't hard, Wicked. Tell me what you want.”

“I don't know what I want yet,” I say at last, pressing one hand against my forehead. I can feel a migraine coming on. Stress. The space behind my eyes is beginning to thump. “I'm just taking things as they come. It's hard to plan anything with Carson in the middle of it.”

“Then let's take him out of it.” Griff hesitates. “What if we tell my cousin? He could help us bring a case against Carson.”

“And take me down in the process. Worse, it'll take Bren down.” Saying it aloud makes guilt squeeze me breathless. “My
sister
will go down.”

I'll be alone
. It's brief and brilliant, blazing across my brain in a language I didn't think I understood. When did I become that girl?

“They won't go down,” Griff says, edging closer even as I'm straining away. “We'll figure it out. We'll weather it together.”

We. Not them.
I shake my head, can't stop.

Griff makes a strained noise. “Bren and Lily will be fine. They wouldn't want this for you.”

“I don't want any of this for them. It's my burden, Griff.” What I really mean is it's my fault. I want to fix this for them. I also want to fix it for me.

“I'll minimize the damage, Wicked. I did it once.”

He did. Carson tried to catch me helping my father and I would have gone to jail for sure—
if
I'd been caught. Griff erased all my digital fingerprints from the files I gave my dad and his right-hand man, Joe Bender. They went to jail. Griff saved me.

No guarantees I'll be that lucky the second time. “There's more at stake here than just me, Griff.”

Besides, even if I could take Carson down . . . I want to finish Bay first. Two for the price of one.

“Think about it,” Griff says. “It's your decision.”

Funny how three little words can make me feel so warm. So do these words: I will save myself. I will protect Bren, and by protecting Bren I'll protect Lily.

I look at Griff and smile. “I don't know what to do with you.”

Now he's smiling. “I have a few ideas.”

 

For the rest
of the week, I spend my afternoons watching Bay's house from the shelter of the woods. In some ways, this is stupid easy because my hiding spot is well hidden and, more importantly, no one at home misses me. Griff is finishing an art project for his college application portfolio. Bren and Lily have their own things going on in preparation for the cheer meet. Ian . . . well, Ian is still bugging me about our project, but I've managed to put him off. Everything's working.

Sort of.

Because I haven't made any headway. For
days
, all I get to watch is the guards and the Bays go about their business—come home from school, eat dinner, walk around the backyard; it's every bit as thrilling as it sounds.

Then, on Sunday, I get a break. Just after lunch, one of the guards reaches into his pocket, pulling out a cell phone. He messes with it for a moment, waits, and then shows it to his partner. They both stare at the handset. The guard on the left shrugs and turns for the car. I sit up straight. What the hell?

The second guard fiddles with his phone—I think he's texting—then follows the first. They climb into the sedan and drive away. This makes zero sense. The Bays have been gone all weekend. I even saw the emails between Bay and the security firm. The guards are supposed to be here until the family gets home sometime tonight.

I shift, pressing one shoulder against a tree. This is too good to be true.

Which makes me suspicious.

And also eager. Because if I skirted the woods, I could run around to the rear of the house and use the rose trellis to climb onto the back porch roof. According to the last email I saw between Barton & Moore and Bay, the second-floor windows still don't have functioning alarms. If I jimmied the lock, I could sneak into the house and install the sniffer without interruption. It would be a round of brilliant good luck.

Then again, who's to say someone wouldn't come home and catch me? The idea turns my blood slushy. That won't work.

Screw it. I'm going. I pull my hoodie tight over my hair. With one eye on the house across the street, I follow the tree line around until I'm in the Bays' backyard. Still half in the trees, I wait, watch. There's nothing. The house is completely still. If I'm going to do this, I better do it now.

Breaking from the trees, I hustle across the lawn, heading for the rose trellis. I thread my hands through the prickly vines and test the wooden frame's sturdiness. I think it will hold. I
hope
it will hold.

Hoisting one foot up, I jam it into the space where wooden slats are nailed together and start climbing. Hand over hand. I make it to the roof's edge in less than fifteen seconds and heave myself up, rolling to my feet, ready to pry the window open.

Except I don't need to. The window is cracked open.