Remember Me (29 page)

“So how's that work? You're just going to shadow me for the rest of my life?”

She's too young to sound so bitter, and another pang of guilt chokes me. I grab my keys. “We'll figure it out later. Just get in the car.”

I call Mrs. Ellery to explain where I'm going as both girls pile into the Mini. Thankfully, the old bat doesn't give me any crap and I drive them back to Mina's, not leaving the driveway until Lily walks into the house and closes the door tight behind her. Milo's wrong. The past isn't dead. The future is. Everything we've done creates everything we will do.

Maybe this was always going to happen.

I'll have to be fast though. Business hours are only for another few minutes. I pick up my cell phone and I don't even have to search for the number because it's still in my Recent Calls list. The line rings so many times, I think they've left for the day, but then the receptionist picks up. “Fayette County Jail, where can I direct your call?”

I angle the phone against my ear. “I need to make an appointment to see inmate Michael Tate.”

44

I get the same guard as before, and as we walk into the Rainbow Visiting Room together, I try to gauge if he thinks it's weird that I'm here again.

Or, worse, if he thinks it's weird that I'm here for a totally different person, like weird enough to remember it for a jury.

Because if Michael does end up doing this—and if I'm going to tell him what happened, I should, at minimum, be able to say what
this
is and I can't—I want to make sure I'm covered. It can't get traced back to me. But the guard leaves without a second glance and I'm alone.

A few minutes later, Michael appears, and when he stands on the other side of the Plexiglas, he smiles and smiles.

All I can think about is how Carson said our smiles are the same.

“Hello, Wicket.”

I swallow hard. “Michael.”

My dad's eyebrows rise like he finds the greeting amusing. I don't care. The last time I saw him he nearly dislocated my shoulder and he's in jail because Griff helped catch him. He doesn't scare me anymore.

Maybe if I say it enough, I'll believe it.

Michael settles in his chair, palming what's left of his blond hair. The jail buzz cut makes the lines of his skull stand up in blunted ridges.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“Did you get my present?” Specifically, did he get a dented Samsung Galaxy loaded with the enhanced security video footage file from my computer? Stringer said he should have. Stringer will say a lot of things for two hundred bucks.

“I did. Where'd you find that?”

“Friend gave it to me.”

Michael's eyes wander to the guard watching us. “Some friend.”

You have no idea.
“I wanted you to see it because”—I hesitate, trying to choose my words carefully—“because what happened wasn't an accident. It wasn't a choice. Mom did it because she had to, because Joe Bender made her.”

Michael goes still. “You sure about this?”

“I reduced the blur in the video, and enlarged the image. You can clearly see them. It happened. It's him.”

My father is silent for so long I think he doesn't care and I'm useless again. His eyes stay low, tracing some invisible word scarred on the tabletop in front of him.

“Who was with him?”

My mouth goes dry. I said
them
. I slipped.

“Some junkie he found to help him,” I lie. Inside though I'm freaking. It's not like me to make that sort of mistake. I want him locked up, not dead.

Right?

Of course not. That isn't me. I don't want anyone to die.

Only that's a lie now, isn't it?

“Why're you telling me?” My dad's eyes lift, meeting mine, and I have to struggle not to shudder.

“Because you need to know.” I flex my hands under the table, rubbing sweaty palms against my jeans. Something wordless and urgent sits in my chest. I curl around it. “And because I want to know what you're going to do about it.”

Michael smiles again and this time I do shudder. Maybe from fear . . . maybe from anticipation. I want Joe to pay and I know the look Michael has now. It's promising me mayhem.

“I'm going to take care of it, Wicket,” he says. “Trust me.”

When it comes to this, I do. I walk to my car not really feeling light or giddy.

Or guilty.

Instead, I'm just . . . centered? I don't know what it is, but I like how it feels beneath my bones, and when Bren calls the home phone and gets forwarded to my cell and I tell her I'm fine, for the first time in ages, I'm not lying.

45

I'm barely home when another text message comes through from an unknown number.

What else do you have?

Hello to you too. Carson must have got himself another burner phone. I dump my bag and sit down heavily on the floor. What else do I have? Um, nothing.

Nothing won't fly with Carson. I need something he can't reach himself. Something good.

I rub my eyes hard and, in the dark, I see my sister. My perfect, blond sister. Huh.

Chelsea was a blonde. Lell was a blonde. They were close in age . . . could that mean something? It might if I didn't know Chelsea was probably killed over leveraging Lell's pictures, so that leaves . . . Lell.

And suddenly, what Jason said before he passed out at the carnival party comes roaring back to me: “Looks like Lell.” If she was his first kill, it all starts with her, and whatever he started four years ago is finishing now . . . hmmm.

I double-check the security system and go upstairs, powering on my computer. After a few moments of waiting, I open Google and type in “Lell Daley Peachtree City.” Several listings appear. Since the body's discovery, there's been a fair amount of news coverage and it's all pretty much saying the same stuff: local girl, tragic end, who could have done such a thing?

I click through the articles, finding nothing useful—no background revelation, no big clue. Unsurprising really. It's not like any of the local papers are going to make some amazing, case-breaking reveal. I finish one article, scroll to the top . . . and see Lell's picture grinning out at me.

I've seen this one before, but where?

Oh, yeah, Carson used it at his press conference and it's easy to see why. Lell's smile is stretched wide as it can go. She's leaning into Kyle, who's squinting into the sun. They look so happy.

I spend so much time staring at her smile that I almost miss the other arm linked through Lell's. Kyle is on her left. Someone else is on her right. I click on the picture, enlarging it. It's a man's arm. You can tell from the size of the forearm and the size of the watch. Judging by how he's holding on to Lell, they must be pretty tight.

So who is he?

I skim the article once more, looking for any information on the picture and there's nothing . . . except for a line about how Lell's mom took the photo a few weeks before the girl disappeared.

I wiggle my mouse, thinking. If Mrs. Daley took the picture and gave it to the press to use, she would probably remember who the other guy was, right?

Only one way to find out.

I open a new tab and start searching for Reichelle Daley's address.

 

Reichelle was an
easy find. Even after Lell left, she never moved from our old neighborhood, and as I study her trailer through my windshield, I wonder if it was because she was waiting for her daughter to come back. The single-wide is at the end of a shallow cul-de-sac, its plastic shutters faded from yellow to tan, the edges of the metal siding peeling away from the frame.

When I knock on the door, the whole side porch shakes underneath me and, briefly, I think I'm about to cave through the boards.

I sigh. This better be good. I bet Mrs. Ellery is phoning Bren even as we speak. “Mrs. Daley?”

The plastic door opens and a woman in a stained sweatshirt and leggings stares at me through the screen. “Yeah. Who're you?”

“Wicket Tate. I used to live on Sycamore.”

“And?”

“And I wanted to talk to you about your daughter.”

A pause. She studies me. “You look like Lell.”

I give Reichelle a tight smile, the skin along the back of my neck tingling. There is definitely something here. I just have to find it.

“I'm really sorry for your loss, Mrs. Daley.” I hesitate, chew my lower lip for a beat. “Do you think I could ask you a few questions about her?”

“Why?”

I blank.
Because I'm doing a report for school? No. Because I work for the school newspaper? Not likely.

“Because I knew Kyle and I think he killed her.” Nowhere near the truth, but her eyes focus at the words and I know I've said what she wants to hear.

“I think he did too.” Reichelle pulls open the screen door, motions for me to come inside. “I'd rather talk to someone from the neighborhood than those damn cops anyway.”

I follow her into a cramped living room that smells like the inside of an old lady's purse. It's musty and stale, and when I breathe through my mouth, I can feel the dust hit my teeth.

“How did you know Kyle?” she asks, disappearing into the kitchen for a long moment.

“School. He was older. There was this outreach program and . . .” And I don't need to go any further because Reichelle's not listening. She shuffles into the living room and drops onto a worn corduroy couch, regarding me with flat eyes.

“You hungry? I got casseroles if you are.”

“No, thank you.”

“That's what I should have said. Everyone's treating me like I'm some sort of invalid. They keep bringing me food because they think I'm too busy crying to eat. No one understands that I already did my crying, cried all I cared to when Lell ran off with that boy.”

“I had heard you were happy.”

“I was.” Reichelle nods hard, her gray hair fanning around her face. “I
was
. For a little while. Because that was the last I saw of her. Thought she had ditched me for her amazing new life with that rich boy. I cried then. Did for months actually. Haven't cried now. Don't know why that is.”

Because grief is a funny thing. It ambushes you when you least expect it, and even though I should probably say something comforting here because I have an idea what she's enduring, I say nothing.

I clear my throat, but my voice still sounds like Minnie Mouse. “I wanted to ask you about a newspaper picture I saw—the one you took, where Kyle and Lell are smiling at the camera.”

“Yeah.” She lifts one shoulder. “What about it?”

“You can see another person's arm in the picture. Do you happen to remember who else was there?”

“Of course I do. It was Jason Baines.”

 

They were all
friends. Jason and Lell grew up together—just minutes away from me—and when Lell caught Kyle's attention sophomore year, they all started hanging out. Lell was Kyle's first love. Jason was Kyle's first dealer.

“Did you tell the police that?”

Reichelle stares at me like I'm an idiot. “No. Why would I tell them? What good would it do?”

“What if Jason was involved?”

Reichelle stiffens. “You know how much that boy cried when Lell left?”

I shake my head slowly and Reichelle relaxes a little, slumping into the couch cushions. “He still keeps an eye on me, makes sure the grass is mowed and stuff. I don't care what people say about him. If you're one of Jason's people, he takes care of you. He takes care of me. He makes sure his people take care of me.”

I nod like I understand. All I can think of is Joe though and how I took care of him. Does that make me one of Jason's people?

My phone vibrates. Another text coming in. Bren? I check the screen. Carson.

Dental records identify body as Kyle Bay

I read it once, twice. That can't be right. That would mean . . .

“I think Jason loved her,” Reichelle adds, and I have to force myself to meet her eyes even though all I can think about is, if Kyle's dead, who beat up Ian?

“I wish Lell'd loved him the same way,” she continues. “You never want who you're supposed to though, do you?”

No, you don't.
I'm shaking now. It takes everything I have to push to my feet. “Thanks for your time.”

A shadow falls across us.

“Absolutely, I want to thank you, Mrs. Daley.” Jason stands in the doorway, grinning, and fear licks up my spine. He looks at Lell's mom like she's done something amazing.

She looks away. “You're welcome.”

“I can't tell you how much I appreciate this.” Jason steps into the room.

My legs turn to lead. “Appreciate what?”

“This.” Jason holds up a Taser, fires it at me.

And my whole body goes up in flames.

46

I wake to pain. The skin on my chest feels scorched, and when I shift, bile surges into my mouth, gagging me.

“I wouldn't move if I were you.”

Jason.

I jerk to my knees, swinging—and puking. The force of each heave brings my nose inches from the Oriental carpet under me. Four more retches and I manage to sit upright, push a shaking hand across my damp mouth.

And want to scream.

I'm in Bay's living room again and Jason's standing over me. “Told you not to move,” he says, his eyes inching across my face. “Probably my fault. I Tasered you longer than I should have. It just felt so damn good.”

I glare at him, coming aware in a horrible rush that we're not alone. Someone heavy is lying next to me. It stirs, moans. I look down and swallow hard. Judge Bay.

Jason kicks him. “Had a change of heart yet, old man?”

“Go to hell.”

“Please, Dad.”

I sit straighter, the edges of my vision sparkling, but my brain is starting to clear. A few feet away, Ian kneels on the floor, his battered face turned toward his father.