Remember Me (23 page)

“They were a problem. He was a problem. Always following her, pressing up on her.”

Something cold coils in my stomach. “Which friend?”

“The big one. She was so afraid of the big one.”

I wince—can't help it—and I have to force myself to ask even though I know the answer. “Do you remember the big one's name?”

“Joe. His name was Joe.”

“He scared her enough to commit suicide?”

Sam shakes her head hard. “Not suicide.”

“She jumped off a building, Sam. That's called suicide.”

“You seen the tape?” Her eyes fix on the bottle and I draw it away, watching how she watches it.

“What tape?”

“The security tape. I haven't seen it either, but I was told all about it. Those policemen never figured out who else was up there, but she wasn't alone.” Sam runs her tongue over her cracked lips. “Sia didn't jump. She was pushed.”

32

Pushed? Dimly, I'm aware of Milo coming closer and I pray he won't touch me. I feel like I'm breathing through a straw, like my skin may split.
Pushed!

“Who told you about the tape?” I manage.

Samantha shakes her head, eyes still fixed on the bottle in my hand. I want to throw it at her.

“Do you remember anything else?” I ask.

“Maybe if you come again later, I'll remember more.”

I bet. And if I bring more booze, I bet you'll remember a ton more.

Whether or not any of this is true is the real question.

“Thanks for your help, Sam.” I put the bottle on the ground between us and leave, making my way back to the car with Milo trailing behind me. He pops the locks on the ancient Ford and we pile in.

Pushed.

“It doesn't make any sense.” I paw wet hair out of my eyes, tuck it behind my ears. “If you're going to kill someone, you don't drag them up flight after flight of stairs and throw them out a window.”

“You do if you need it to look like a suicide.”

I cut my eyes to Milo. I don't get it. He's not being an ass. He sounds . . . thoughtful.

I yank my gaze forward. “If you're going to kill someone, you make sure it takes. Gun. Knife. Strangling. You don't want witnesses. You don't want any chance that the person survives.”

“True. Ideally, that's exactly what you do.” Milo stretches out his legs, settling into the driver's seat like he's settling into the idea. “What if you need to eliminate someone without risking repercussions?”

“Like with the cops?” I ask.
Like with my dad?

Milo turns, realizes I'm staring at him. We both wrench our eyes away.

“Yeah, like the cops.” This time, his tone has shifted. Milo agrees so easily I know he doesn't agree at all. He's thinking of my dad too. Or someone like him.

Amazing how I remember so much about my dad and I don't remember her loving me. . . . I want to. Desperately. What kind of sick joke is it that I can remember the things I want to forget, but
this
? This memory that Sam has and I don't? It's a memory I want to keep and I've lost it.

“Let's get out of here,” I say.

Milo nods and turns the ignition. As we pull away from the curb, I stare through the rain-spattered windshield, trying to decide if I believe any of what Sam said.

I'm scared to admit it . . . I do.

Milo makes a hard right and plows the Crown Vic through an enormous puddle. “So, all flirting aside, why'd you call me for this?”

“Figured you would have better contacts with this stuff.”

“What's that mean? I know crazy better than you do?”

I drum my fingers against my leg, debating my answer. I recognize the pissed-off simmering under the joke. I use it too frequently myself and it's another unpleasant reminder of how similar we are. “Sorry, yeah, because of your dad and all.”

Milo nods. “And your artist sidekick?”

My insides clench. “We broke up.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Believe it. I got some bullies expelled. He was . . . upset.”

Milo settles deeper into his seat as we switch lanes. “Getting bullies expelled sounds like a good thing.”

“Griff had a problem with the way I did it.”

“Do tell.”

“I got ahold of one of the guys' cell phone. It had video of them smoking up and drinking at a lacrosse game so I, uh, posted it to the school's YouTube account and then locked the account.”

“Nicely done.”

I glance at Milo, search his face to see if he's lying. He's not and a flicker of pride licks the inside of my rib cage. “Griff was pissed. He thinks I stooped to their level.”

Milo shrugs. “You believe in true love? Like love at first sight or whatever?”

I have no idea where he's going with this, but I know my answer. “No.”

“Me either. I think it presupposes that love is perfect—that people are perfect or they can be. I think you're supposed to fall in love with someone who's perfect for you. Someone whose failings are arranged in a way that they hinge with yours.”

“Wow, that sounds like something out of a fortune cookie. A really big, long-winded fortune cookie.”

“I'm being serious. Love is supposed to make you a better version of who you really are—not who the other person wants you to be.”

“I'm not sure I want to be the person I am.”

Milo cuts me a quick glance, his face half illuminated from the dash. “Is that him talking? Or you?”

I look out the window so I don't have to answer. “You think Sam was lying?”

“No.”

“Me either.”

“How'd you know to go looking for her?” Milo asks. “What made you decide after all this time?”

Because I got some gifts in the mail.
Sounds incredibly stupid though and would be even worse if I said it out loud. Griff may have been right about this being convenient. Considering the messages attached to the end of the interviews, he might have even more than just a point.

But I'm not walking away.

“Oh, you know how it goes,” I say at last. “I've been thinking about her for a few years now. Went ahead and decided to follow up.”

“Riiiigggghhhhtttt. You going to get that security footage?”

Finally. Something I can be honest about. I look at Milo, smile. “Without a doubt.”

33

I am now going on less than four hours of sleep and I look like it. Bags under my eyes? Check. Pasty? Check. Bloodshot eyes? Oh my God, yes.

I have a history test this morning and all I can think about is Kyle Bay and that security video.

I need it . . . I'm just not sure how I'm going to get my hands on it.

I zip my messenger bag closed and check my phone. Twenty minutes until Bren has to drop Lily off at school and our adoptive mom is still running around in bare feet. Looks like I'm not the only one who's had a bad night. Bren streaks past me, muttering about her keys.

“Do you want help?” I ask.

“No, no, I'm fine. Just do some deep breathing or something so you're calm before your history test. We want you to do well.”

The only way I'm going to do well on my test is through divine intervention, but whatever. Bren gallops past again and I watch her go.

So how am I going to get that video?

The building my mom jumped from has changed property managers twice in the past four years, so odds are pretty good that the recording has been off-sited into storage. And, unfortunately, neither company has any sort of employee portal that I could manipulate, and that would only work if—
if
—the companies actually kept that sort of material online.

Which I highly doubt they do.

There might be a copy of the security footage at the police department, but that would involve asking Carson for a favor and I'd rather dig my eyes out with spoons.

“Wick, honey, are you getting sick?” Bren slides to a stop in front of me, feeling my forehead with one hand, juggling her car keys and purse with the other. “You don't look like you feel well.”

Nothing that the contraband energy drink in my bag can't fix. Bren thinks caffeine will stunt my growth so I have to sneak it.

“Just tired,” I say, and give her a smile.

Still surprises me when she smiles back. Suddenly, we're one big happy family. I'm pretending and she believes. I've made her feel better and I should feel really good about that. I don't.

“Okay. I'll be ready to go in just a few. I just need”—Bren gropes around in her bag—“my planner. Where's my planner?”

She dashes into the kitchen and the home phone rings. Bren picks it up and for a couple minutes there's nothing, just low-voiced mumblings, giving me more time to obsess about the footage and still come up with nothing.

“Wick? That was Manda Ellery.”

The way Bren says our neighbor's name makes me stiffen.

“She said she saw you coming in after four in the morning last night.” Bren appears in the doorway, head tilted in confusion. “What were you doing? Did you . . . sneak out?”

Oh. Shit. I need a lie. I need a really good lie.

“Did you need something?” Bren asks.

Milk?
Stupid. There's no way she's going to believe that. I chew the inside of my cheek, unable to believe that even after all my care—putting away the Mini in total darkness, taking off my shoes before slipping inside the kitchen—I end up getting busted by our nosy insomniac neighbor.

I guess I should be glad Manda didn't pay any attention when rats were getting nailed to our front door.

“Well?” Bren demands, twin spots of color blooming on her cheeks.

“What's going on?” Lily jumps down the last stair, hair and clothes immaculate, book bag strapped on. “What's wrong?”

Better to just confess, right? “Sorry, Bren. I had something I had to do last night.”

“Something to do?” she echoes. “You sneaked out! How could you do that?”

“
Wick
,” Lily says, and suddenly, Bren and my sister look so much alike I nearly laugh.

Thank God I don't though because Bren looks ready to kill me on the spot. She holds up one finger, pointing it at the ceiling. “What exactly did you have to do that would necessitate
sneaking
out of the house that late?”

I was wrong. I need the really good lie right now, not earlier. “I was restless. I needed some air. I'm sorry.”

I'm also lame as hell. I should have a better excuse.

Bren's nose wrinkles. “You were restless? Were you partying or something? Did you go see Griff?”

I wince at his name and Bren sees it. She opens her mouth and I cut her off. “Yeah, I went to see Griff. It was . . . unexpected. I should have asked you. I'm sorry.”

“You're right. You should have asked.” Bren's nodding hard now, strands of hair popping loose from her chignon. “You don't get to just wander around whenever you feel like it, Wick. It's dangerous out there—especially with what's going on with your dad's case.”

Again, it's the inflection that tells me whatever is about to happen, I'm not going to like it. I watch Bren warily.

“You're grounded,” she says. “Total lockdown until further notice. You go to school. You come home. That's it.”

“You can't do that. I have—”

“You don't have anything. Not anymore.”

34

This is ridiculous. I brought down a child rapist by infecting his computer with a virus I created. I used to catch cheaters for pay. I worked for my dad, an epic douche canoe, for
years
as his personal hacker.

And I'm grounded for sneaking out of the house.

I should probably find it funny.

I've caught up on my history work, finished all my midterm projects, and rechecked the security system in case any unwelcome guests should decide to show up. Considering my luck right now, an appearance from Kyle or Jason would be pretty much on point.

Being pissed keeps me from being scared.

Well,
that
and working for Carson again. He wants something, anything that will give him an opening to Bay. The entire city is treating the judge with kid gloves and Carson wants to choke the life out of him.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I can't blame the detective. We hate the judge for different reasons, but it's still hate living underneath both our skins. Bay has gone to the papers, telling everyone who will listen how horrible this has been for him, how his family is gone, destroyed.

It sent the newspaper blog into a frenzy of pity. Funny. I don't remember anyone being upset when Bay didn't protect my family from my dad. No one mourned when my mother's life ended.

But I do remember how these same people wanted Lily and me sent away after she died.

Since the sniffer is still only giving me work info on Bay, I dig into the pictures I stole from Ed Price's office. Everything is copied to my laptop, so I can access the images' Exif files.

It's useful stuff, since it captures all of the camera settings and information for each photo, things like the shutter speed, focal length, and date/time stamps. Looks like all of the photographs were taken with the Nikon D90 SLR camera registered to an IBay. No mystery there. That must be Ian. Considering they were all living together at the time, Kyle probably borrowed the camera and, later, dumped the images onto a computer hard drive or jump drive. So that leaves . . . what else?

Ugh. The pictures themselves. Whoever took them enjoyed the process. The shots are all from different angles. In one, you can see Lell's entire mutilated body. In another, there's only her bloodied chest. There are a few close-ups that are more awkwardly placed. The camera angle is cocked and you can see another person's hand and forearm in the shot, posing Lell's head so it better faces the camera. There's a small splatter of blood on the guy's forearm. Or is it a birthmark? It kind of looks like one of the amoebas we studied in biology: lumpy-edged and tiny, which makes me believe it might be a birthmark.