Watched (11 page)

Miranda practically knocked her laptop off the bed she was bouncing up and down so hard. The screen name Griffin recognized matched an old one used by one of Telenet's employees.

“You are so busted, Mr. Leonard Kerstater,” she whispered, staring at the Creep's online company profile, complete with photo.

She settled down, sitting cross-legged, hugging her favorite stuffed animal, a calico cat, to her chest, feeling free and floaty and light and young…like she was a kid again. Like none of the past two years had actually happened.

Then she realized several minutes had passed without Griffin saying anything. She tapped the volume control, heard his ragged, panicked breathing.

“Griffin? Are you okay?” No answer. “Griffin? Jesse?”

When his voice came again, it sounded strangled tight. “Names. They don't mean anything. People just hide behind them. It doesn't mean you're anyone different than who you really are.”

“You want me to stop calling you Griffin?” she asked, puzzled.

“I want to stop being Jesse. Stop being JohnBoy.” There was a noise like a hand slapping something hard. “But that's never going to happen, is it? No matter what I call myself.”

“I wish—” She wished she knew what to say. Lying would be easy, but he deserved better. She borrowed from Dr. Patterson instead. “We can't change the past, Jesse. We can only work toward a better future.”

“Future? You really think I'm ever going to have a future? We nail King—you know what that means? It means my mom and little sister and the kids at school and teachers and the guys at the fire station and, I don't know, Fox News and CNN and who knows who, they'll all know who I am. What I did. I'll be famous—not me, JohnBoy. Those pictures and videos, they'll go viral, end up on page one, flashed everywhere. What kind of future is that?”

She was silent. If anyone knew what that felt like, having your life ripped open, laid bare for the hyenas to feed on, it was her.

“I survived,” she whispered, hoping he didn't hear the lie behind her words. Miranda had survived, been born out of the chaos and pain. Ariel hadn't. “I'll be with you,” she promised, hoping it wasn't another lie. “Every step of the way.”

“Maybe I'm not as strong as you. Maybe I'm not Griffin. I'm only Jesse, poor, pathetic Jesse who can't fix anything. Who couldn't say no. Maybe I can't go through with this.”

She waited, the silence between them filled with a thousand possibilities. His voice returned, a tiny whisper piercing the airwaves. “You said you found King. Give me his address.”

No. She wanted the Creep, King, to be exposed with as much public humiliation as what she'd suffered at his hands. She wanted him to face the scrutiny of hundreds of eyes on him, seeing him as he truly was: a wretched evil son of a bitch who preyed on the weak for profit and amusement.

She'd planned almost a year for this. Now that she'd found him, nothing was going to stop her. “No. Griffin, we need to stick to the plan.”

“I don't give a shit about the plan. What if your file upload doesn't work? What if he's not there, at the arena, tomorrow? What if something goes wrong and he runs? No. We end this now. Tell me where he is.”

“What are you going to do?” She almost didn't dare to ask, had a pretty good idea what he would say. He wanted King dead as much as she did. Maybe even more.

His breath rattled through the phone. “I have a gun.”

I sit on the restroom floor, my butt going numb. The revolver feels heavy in my pocket, and I pull it out. Its chrome sparks in the overhead fluorescent light. Almost as shiny as my lighter.

I spin the wheel, liking the sound. Then I open it, remove all the bullets. Double-triple-check that the barrel is clear, and dry fire it, aiming at the lock on the door. I'm a good shot with pistols and rifles, shotguns too. My uncle likes guns—something besides fire, beer, and football that firefighters have in common. At least around here.

I pull the trigger again, timing it between breaths, my hand steady. Could I do it? Kill someone?

This isn't me. I've no idea who this is. Not Jesse. Not JohnBoy. Is this who Griffin is? A killer?

Miranda is speaking into my ear. I finally hear her over the roaring in my brain. “Griffin? Talk to me. Are you okay?”

“I'm here.” I spin the wheel again. I can tell by her sudden silence that she can hear it.

“You're not going to hurt yourself, are you?”

“No. If it was that easy, I'd have done it long ago.”

“Right. You're right.” Funny, she's the one who sounds panicked. “Killing yourself isn't the answer. Neither is that gun. Are you okay to drive?”

“I'm not drunk. Not high.” I don't know what I am, can't explain how I feel. What comes after fury, after terror, after you've surrendered so much of your soul that you're empty inside, nothing left?

“I can't come to you. Will you come to me? Talk to me about this, about what we should do?”

“Are you going to tell me where he is? Who he is?”

“No.” She pauses. “Not until we talk. Face-to-face.” Her voice is a lifeline, crossing time and distance to guide me to safety.

What choice do I have? I grab on to the hope that is Miranda and use her strength to pull myself back onto solid ground.

Finally, I sigh. Rage simmers like a live wire in my veins, but it's a weary, frustrated rage that I can control.

I climb to my feet and shove the bullets into one pocket, the gun into another. I pull out my notebook and pencil. “Give me your address. I'm on my way.”

• • •

Miranda had just hung up from talking with Griffin when her dad appeared in her open bedroom doorway. She jumped—Mom was at class and Dad was supposed to be at work.

“Dad, what are you doing here? You scared me.” She closed her laptop, trying to look casual.

“Came home early.” He leaned into the room, looking around. “I heard voices.”

She jumped off the bed and gave him a quick hug before heading out into the hall. “I was Skyping with a classmate about our trig assignment. Let me fix you lunch.”

Beyond the hallway she saw a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers on the kitchen counter.

“Why are you home early?” she called back over her shoulder, wishing he'd follow her. King's picture was still on the main screen of her laptop; she hadn't had a chance to clear it. Not to mention all the other tabs she had open, tracing her steps to get onto the Telenet site and find his personnel profile.

Nothing illegal—well, maybe, sorta, and definitely not exactly the kind of thing her dad would understand. Especially since after she'd left the hospital the last time, she'd promised her parents that she'd give up her obsession, stalking the Creep, and she'd leave it to the police. The first of so many lies she'd lost count.

“Dad? What do you want for lunch?” She turned to face him, the length of the hall separating them. Exactly the wrong length. Too close to hide, too far to reach out to him, guide him away from her secrets. From her lies.

He stared at her as if sighting down the barrel of his gun. His cop stare—very different from the soft, fuzzy expression she usually coaxed from him. His “don't even try to bullshit me” stare. As if she was some kind of criminal.

Well, technically she was. Kinda. A few bent privacy and cybersecurity violations. All for a good cause.

At least it had been. But now she had Jesse out there with a gun. She'd grown used to thinking of him as Griffin, her imaginary hero, protector, avenger. But it wasn't Griffin who'd broken down. It wasn't Griffin who wanted to end things with King right now; it wasn't Griffin headed over here.

It was Jesse. Scared, desperate, and armed.

And her dad equally armed.

A buzzing filled her head. Her breath caught as possibilities collided. Her dad was trained to deal with emotionally distraught people—but if Jesse lost control here, in his own home, with his daughter present? Would he react as a police officer or a father?

Memories flooded over her: the thud of fists striking flesh, men hauling her dad off the men who'd attacked her mom, cuffing his hands behind him, treating him like a criminal. His eyes blazing with rage. She stared at the apartment's front door, turned, and looked at her father still in his uniform. Regret and fear throttled her.

What the hell had she done?

I make it back to my truck, not even sure how I get there. I set my notebook with Miranda's address on the dash. I think I know where I'm going, but I'm not one hundred percent certain. I could call her again, but I feel like I've let her down enough for one day already. I can find my way.

Almost immediately I have to pull the truck over when my phone rings. Not Miranda's. My real phone. The one my mom got me to “keep me safe.” The one no one ever calls.

I grab it from the cup holder between the seats. “Hi, Mom.” She and Janey are in Pittsburgh for the day at the cystic fibrosis clinic. “Everything okay?”

Wrong thing to say, I realize immediately. I glance at the clock, not quite one. I should be in biology, not answering my cell phone. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

“Where the hell are you?” she asks. Her voice isn't raised, not angry, more like bruised. “Mr. Walker called, said you never made it to school today. Said you were given detention yesterday and ran out of it. He's talking suspension, Jesse.”

“Suspension? For what?”

“Said you knocked over a janitor. He's calling it assault.”

“I never—” Wait, actually, I might have. I vaguely remember a big yellow janitor's bucket standing between me and the door, skidding into it as I ran to save Janey. Had there been a person there as well? “It was an accident, Mom.”

“And today?”

“I—I had to meet a friend. They're in trouble and need my help.”

“I want you home right now.”

“Yes, ma'am. What about Mr. Walker?”

“I told him you were running out because you were sick with that nasty stomach flu. Covered for you, said I'd forgot to call in this morning to let them know you were home still sick. Said I was too busy getting Janey ready for the trip to Children's.”

I hated that she lied for me. Hated even more how easily it came to her—I always thought Mom was the one person I could count on to always be honest. “You didn't have to do that.”

“Richey and I discussed it and decided it was best that we handle family problems here in the family.” Richey is what she calls her little brother, my uncle. He's just as good at manipulating her as he is me. And she's oblivious, as always.

“I'm on my way home now, but I'm in Altoona.” The noise of a hospital intercom mixes with a monitor's beeping in the background. “How's Janey?”

She blows out her breath in a sigh of frustration and worry. “Her pulmonary function tests are low and she's got a fever. They're keeping her here for IV antibiotics until they know what's going on. We're waiting on the X-rays now.”

“Infection?” The nemesis of CF patients. All that thick gunk that collects in their airways and sinuses attracts germs. “She was fine yesterday.” God, had I missed something, too busy worrying about King? I hit the steering wheel with my fist, squinching my eyes tight. Janey had to be okay; she just had to be.

“If it is, they've got it early. We'll know for sure once they get the tests back.” Her voice is ragged, more than tired. “We won't be home for a few days and quite frankly, I'm not sure what to do with you, Jesse. I thought I could trust you, but—”

“You can.” How can I prove that to her without telling her the truth? “I'm headed home right now.”

“All right. Call me as soon as you get there—from the landline so I know you're really home. I'll see what your uncle wants to do.”

“Yes, ma'am.” I put the truck in gear and start driving.

I call Miranda to let her know I can't make it, but there's no answer. I try three more times before I reach my uncle's house.

Why isn't she picking up?

• • •

Her dad met Miranda's gaze, then pivoted, hand dropping to his gun. He entered her room as if it was enemy territory. She pushed back against the wall, holding her breath. He emerged a moment later carrying her laptop. Now open.

He didn't even glance at her as he passed her and headed to the kitchen table. He set the laptop down, settled into a chair, and waited.

Her mind spun with lies and excuses. How much to tell him? Nothing was her first instinct, remembering what had happened last time she'd told the truth about King. That day in court when she'd testified. It'd felt like ripping out her guts, and what had come of it? Her dad hitting those guys, her mom in tears, Miranda back in the hospital…

She sidled into the kitchen and took the seat across from him, slouching until her chin was barely above the table. Eyes narrowed, she watched as he typed with two fingers, clicking the mouse keys, peering into her innermost life. Her real life.

“What are the flowers for?” she asked, hoping a diversion might buy her time to come up with a plan.

He looked up, startled, as if he'd forgotten the wine and roses. “We finally got an offer on the house back in Pittsburgh. Your mom can take more classes and I'll be able to quit my job at the arena.”

The job she'd practically shoved him into. The job she needed him to keep—for a few more days at least. Just until the car show tomorrow.

“But you haven't quit yet, right? You'll be working there this weekend still?”

His gaze snapped from the computer screen to her. Too sharp, not easily fooled. She'd grown so used to the soft, teddy bear of a dad, the man who'd taken such gentle care of her when she'd come home from the hospital last year, she'd forgotten about the tough, street-smart cop.

“Why don't you start at the beginning?” he suggested. “And I'd appreciate it if you told the truth. I think you owe me that, don't you?”

His glance around the shabby, tiny apartment cemented her guilt. They'd had a nice house in Pittsburgh. A nice life. Before she screwed up.

She squinted at him, resenting that he'd chosen now to finally hold her accountable for her actions. Then she straightened, surprised as he lay his hand over hers.

“The truth,” he urged. “It's the only way I can help you, Ariel.”

“Miranda,” she corrected automatically.

He winced at the name. She sat up, tall, proud, and met his gaze dead-on. He frowned and gave a small nod. More a jerk of the chin in acknowledgment that he'd heard her than actual acceptance. “Okay. Miranda. Who is this man?”

He turned the laptop so they could both see the screen. King's face in full color hovered between them. Miranda examined her cuticles, found a ragged edge and picked at it. Every time she looked at King, he appeared so normal, dull, the kind of guy who'd hold the door open for a stranger and you'd look right past him, never see or notice him.

Was that why he did what he did? Not just power…but attention?

She couldn't meet her father's eyes. Stared instead across the open bar into the living room at the front door. Jesse would be here soon. Maybe it was for the best, telling her father now, before Jesse arrived. Who knew what kind of state he'd be in? He'd sounded devastated over the phone, even after she'd calmed him down and got him to put the gun away.

“Who is he?” her father repeated, bringing her attention back to him.

“He's the one,” she whispered, her voice tight and high-pitched like she was a little girl again. She blinked hard and fast. She couldn't believe she was fighting tears. This was her moment of triumph, what she'd worked so hard for all this year. But here she was falling apart, like she was a stupid little baby.

Her entire body shook. Her father noticed and moved to crouch beside her, hugging her tight.

“It's him, Daddy,” she said, the words almost drowned out by tears. “I found him.”