Remember Me (26 page)

I nod like I do.

Jason picks a piece of tobacco from his tongue and flicks it away. “If you tell your daddy, he'll kill him.”

 

It takes me
forever to get back to my car, and once I do, I manage to drive off like everything's fine.

Too bad I don't even make it to the interstate before I have to pull over. I stop the car on the road's shoulder and try to take deep breaths. It doesn't help.

I press one chilled hand to my forehead. My mother was murdered—
murdered
—and, somehow, it makes . . . sense?

No. That's definitely not the word. I don't know what else to call it though. All that's left of me is broken puzzle pieces. I can jam them together, but there are still empty spaces, chipped-edge continents I didn't know existed—and that's where my mother lives, in the space between.

There's a twinge in my arm, the nerves are starting to burn, and when I shut my eyes against it, all I see is my father grinning. He wouldn't kill someone. He wouldn't.

Yes, he would.

This is Michael.
Michael
. The man who almost killed me when I was growing up, the man who beat my mother, terrorized my sister. And we were his
family
.

The men who work for him have even worse stories. Everyone knows you don't take anything Michael doesn't give you and, once you work for him, he owns you forever.

My mother belonged to Michael. Joe still belongs to Michael. What would my father say if I told him Joe murdered his wife?

Two cars pass me and I stiffen, checking my rearview mirror for cops. The last thing I need is one stopping for a game of “Are you lost, little girl?”

I still can't put the car in drive though. Obviously, Jason has his own agenda. He isn't confirming my suspicions to be helpful. If I told my dad, Jason would benefit and I'd know.

Then again, if I told him, I could promise myself I did it for Lily. I did it for my mom. . . . Deep down though I'd know that I did it for me. Joe murdered my mother. He threatened to murder my sister and me. It's fitting and yet . . . and yet . . .

I grab my phone and dial Stringer.

“My my,” he says upon picking up. “You need another batch of roofies, girlie? I didn't think you were the type.”

“I need information.”

“That costs money too.”

“I'm good for it.” I take an unsteady breath, grip the phone a little harder. “I want to know what's up with Jason Baines. Is he really taking Joe's territories?”

There's a soft squeaking noise from Stringer's end. The dealer's chewing something, thinking about my question.

“Who wants to know?” he asks finally.

“My dad.”

The chewing stops and I almost smile. In certain circles, Michael's name is like a spell. It's the Open Sesame command no one can resist.

“I pay your daddy like I'm supposed to,” Stringer says. “I don't want no trouble.”

“Then tell me what I want to know.”

“Everybody from Tate's crew reports to Jason now. Everybody. The boy wants a promotion.”

By having Joe killed.
“One more thing, Stringer.” I hesitate because I haven't decided what I'm going to do so I shouldn't even ask . . . “Do you think you could get a cell to my dad? I may have something I need him to see.”

“All things can be accomplished with money.”

My laugh is a silent puff. “Thanks. I'll make sure to send something your way for your time.”

“You better.” He hangs up and I spend a moment fiddling with my phone.

Michael would kill someone. True. But he wouldn't kill someone for me or for her . . . would he?

I wrap my fingers around the steering wheel, grip until the veins look like worms beneath the skin. If Michael would kill Joe, I can't tell him. It would be wrong, unforgivable. It makes me into someone Jason used. I'd be an accomplice.

Or I could think of it as being a weapon.

My breath hitches. If I did tell Michael, I would avenge my mother.

39

I walk in the door at three forty-five exactly and Bren is waiting for me in the front hall. For a second I panic. At first I think she knows I've been skipping. Then I see the suitcase at her feet.

“Oh good, Wick, you're home.” Bren hops from foot to foot as she wiggles into a pair of heels. “I wanted to talk to you. I had an emergency meeting come up. I have to fly to Dallas for a few days.”

“Okay.”

Bren chews her lower lip, studying me. “You're still grounded. So that means Manda's going to check in on you.”

Lucky me
. “Okay.”

“She'll call every day to make sure you're home and to see if you need anything. I've done some extra shopping so you should be good for food and there's always that emergency credit card I gave you—” Bren cuts off, her face screwing tight as she remembers something else she's supposed to be doing instead of lecturing me. I feel kind of sorry for her. She's stretched so thin these days.

“It'll be fine, Bren. Don't worry.”

She gives me a suspicious look. “Lily's staying with the Harrisons. She's gotten really close to their daughter and it'll work out better for her to get to school since she can ride in with them. I hope you don't mind being alone for a bit.”

I shrug. Lily hasn't spoken to me in days—since the morning I got grounded—so even when I haven't been alone around here, it feels like I am. “No, I'll be fine. I'm glad she's making friends.”

Bren nods, starts to say something, stops. We're in that place again, where things are awkward.

“When does your flight leave?” I ask.

She grimaces, checks her phone. “Next few hours. I need to go. Are you sure you'll be okay?”

What would she do if I said I wouldn't be? Take me with her? It's so stupid it's funny until I realize Bren would probably love that. It would make her feel needed and that's not something I can offer.

“I'll be fine, Bren. Promise. I'll call you if I need anything.”

She brightens so much at that I make a mental note to actually call her. Maybe I can ask Bren's advice on something . . . like how to heat up noodles or whatever, because I'm pretty sure her head would twist off if I told her about how I'm going to use her time away to talk to my father.

In my bag, my cell buzzes with another text and, while Bren's back is turned, I check the screen. Milo.

thanks

It makes me smile, but before I can respond, Bren's hauling all her stuff out to the car. I walk with her, promise twice to behave, and watch her pull out of the driveway. Then I call forward the home phone number to my cell phone. Now, whenever Mrs. Ellery calls I'll be home.

Even when I'm not.

 

Next step? Confronting
Joe. I make the necessary phone calls from Bren's front office—not because I need the desk or the computer but because I can watch Mrs. Ellery adjust her front yard's garden gnomes. There are two of the grinning little suckers. I wonder if I could sneak over there tonight and put them in a compromising position.

Then again, she might just think they're playing leapfrog.

I turn back to my phone, using the browser to search for the county jail's phone number. The trick will be getting Joe to see me. This takes a little preparation on my part. I have to call the day before to schedule an appointment and then I have to call again to see if he accepted it. Sitting on the phone with the receptionist, I consider using one of the fake identities Joe's given me over the years. In the end, I decide against it. With my luck, Carson will have friends at the Fayette County Jail and giving him identity theft as ammo would be the end of me.

Talking murder with Joe is condemning enough and I'm banking on budget cutbacks to cover my tracks. They used to video record all prisoners' personal visits. Considering the county can't afford new locks on the cells though, I highly doubt there will be decent recording equipment.

I call the jail during lunch the next day and my stomach does an uneasy flip when the receptionist confirms Joe agreed to the meeting. I don't back down though and I show up, ten minutes ahead of time, to let a security guard sign me in and motion me through the metal detector.

I follow him down a rainbow-painted hallway where squat metal stools and black telephones sit in front of Plexiglas windows. It's like a Very Special Episode of
Teletubbies
.

“Go to the last station and I'll send him to you.”

I walk to the end, checking cameras as I go, and it's hard not to grin like an idiot. Sure enough, the hallway is being monitored, but the cameras positioned above the visitor stools aren't even on. Sure they're plugged in. The little green lights that indicate activity though? They're dark.

I only wait a minute or so before an interior door cranks open. I hear Joe's shuffling before I see him and, briefly, my chest cranks tight. This might be a mistake.

Too late.

Joe doesn't sit. He collapses. And for a moment, we stare at each other until he picks up the black telephone.

“I didn't believe them when they said who it was.”

“Yeah, I bet you didn't.”

Joe angles himself forward, propping both elbows onto the counter. “So what is this? You miss me?”

“Oh, yeah, totally. Seeing you in that orange jumpsuit is a thrill I didn't know I was missing. I might have to do this more often.”

Joe's eyes shutter. “What do you want?”

I want you to pay.
The thought makes my heart surge against my rib cage. It bubbles up so clearly I realize I've wanted this all along. I just didn't know it. “I want . . . you to know I know what you did to my mother.”

Joe doesn't move.

“I saw the video. I recognized you.”

“No idea what you're talking about.”

“Do you think my dad will?”

Joe's eyes flicker with uncertainty.

Fear.

I lean in a little. “They separated you two, didn't they? 'Cause they were worried about what you'd do together? Thing is . . . cops don't realize you're never really away from my dad, are you? Remember how you told me he always has friends?”

Another flicker in Joe's eyes, and under the fluorescent lights, sweat breaks out along his upper lip. “Friends that belong to me too.”

Friends that belong to Jason now.
“Maybe,” I say with a smile.

“Why would your daddy even care?” Joe shifts against the chair and casts a casual look behind him, scoping out the guards. “Your mother jumped. No one's fault but hers. Your daddy always said she wasn't right.”

“Getting used like a punching bag has a way of doing that to people.”

Joe's laugh is belly deep. It shakes all the loosened skin on his face. “Fair enough. So what's this supposed to be then? You trying to make me feel guilty?”

He leans in close, touches the glass with two fingers like he's tracing my face.

“Get back!” On Joe's side, a guard notices our exchange and steps toward him. “Keep your hands off the glass!”

Joe turns, gives the guy an easy smile. “Sure thing, boss.” The easy smile is still there when he turns to me, looks me over. “You can't touch me, Wick. Couldn't before. Still can't now. People like you—like your mom—were meant to take what people like me dish out. You were born to be used.”

He waits for me to respond and I can't squeeze anything past my rage.

Joe chuckles. “Maybe you're the one who should be worried, Wick. What if one of my friends came by to visit you? Teach you a thing or two about manners? Remember how that goes?”

My mouth goes dry. Of course I remember, and judging from Joe's smirk, we're both thinking about the time he left me coughing blood on the carpet.

Remember Jason
.
Remember.
I smile.

And it makes Joe's smile falter.

“I'll take my chances,” I say, standing up. It makes me just a bit taller than Joe, who sits with his body slumped in half like an old pillow. “Because I do remember. Everything. Maybe I should start answering all those questions the detectives have. I bet I could tell them even more.”

Now Joe's standing. He bares his teeth at me, and when he speaks, spit hits the glass. “That a threat? You'll pay for it.”

I turn around. “No, I won't.”

40

Thing is . . . if I were really a badass I probably wouldn't have sat in the women's restroom for ten minutes trying to collect myself. Not going to lie, standing up to Joe felt awesome.

I just wish my legs would stop shaking.

They only get worse when I spot Carson leaning against my car as I'm leaving the jail. I push my feet, one in front of the other, until my Chucks are almost touching his slouched shadow.

“Aren't you supposed to be in school, Wicket?”

“Aren't you supposed to be at work, Carson?” The detective's mouth flattens and a muscle in his jaw ticks once. “What? I thought we were playing State the Obvious.”

Behind the Mini, the detective's sedan is parked and running, an officer I don't recognize sitting shotgun. It's creepy the way he's staring at me—like I'm the one that got away.

Which I guess I am.

“What were you doing visiting Joe Bender?”

I shrug. “My good deed for the day. I thought he might be lonely.”

“You're up to something, trash.”

Interesting how the insult seems . . . chipped . . . like it belongs to someone else. My visiting Joe has made Carson anxious.

“What would you two have to say to each other?” the detective asks.

I'm not sure yet. I'm not entirely convinced I should tell my dad what happened. It's not that Joe doesn't deserve punishment. I'm just not sure I want to be the one responsible for his death.