Remember Me (2 page)

And I'm not.

Carson releases my arm, his thumb curving across the spot where Todd rammed in the knife. “I enjoy our little talks. I like seeing everything you've got now, gives me more I can take away. We understand each other?”

“Perfectly.”

“Good,” the detective says, and swings away from me, cutting left, cutting right as the students surge around him.

“What was that about?”

It takes me a beat before I can finally turn around, and when I do, Griff cups my jaw. His long fingers reach into my hair, streak chills down my spine.

“Todd,” I say. The lie is sluggish. I'm looking at Griff and can see only Carson. I shake myself. Another problem with heroes: If you confess your secrets, they will want to save you.

I want to save myself.

“They found some additional information,” I add.

Griff frowns. “Anything we should worry about?”

“No.” I smile and it makes him smile. He looks at me like I'm perfect.

What happens if that goes away?

“It's under control,” I add, and it
is
under control. That part, at least, isn't a lie. I will fix this. I
will
.

Someone jostles Griff from behind and he steps into me, filling my nose with the smell of grass and gasoline and oil paints from his art class. Griff braces one hand above me, shielding me from the crowd. “We still on for tonight?”

I blink.
Dammit. How could I have forgotten?
“Um, yeah, it's just that I have this thing I need to do. With Bren. Can we meet up later?”

“Of course,” he says. And kisses me.

I wrap my arms around his neck and he tugs me close, his hands skating over me, dragging shivers across my skin. I feel my heartbeat . . .
everywhere
. Does it make me pathetic that Griff can burn everything else away?

Everything, but this: Would he want me if he knew?

Yes. Of course. No doubt.

Even though I repeat the words, I don't believe in them any more than I believe in the fairy-tale ending I've been given. There's no such thing. Or there wasn't until I met Griff.

Which side of me is worse: the pathetic girl who wants the boy or the pathetic girl who's afraid of the detective?

I break off our kiss, tell myself I'm breathless from Griff and not because I'm scared. Even though I know that's what lives at the bottom of this: I'm terrified. I don't want to lose everything I've been given.

I curl my hands into Griff's shirt. He grins and my heart stutters.

“So I'll see you later then, Wicked?”

The nickname still makes me blush. “Definitely.”

Another kiss. This one's hard and fast. By the time my fingers curl into his chest, it's done. He's turning away.

Gone.

I chew my tingling lips and reach for my phone, dialing a number I haven't used in ages and should have forgotten. Stringer picks up on the third ring. There's no hello, but I can hear his breathing.

“Hey . . . it's me.” I lean against the lockers, cradling my bad arm.

“Been a long time, girlie.”

“Yeah, it has.” Months and months, actually. Before I went into foster care. When Stringer and I were just good earners for my dad. “I need your help.”

“What kind of help?”

“Roofies. By tonight.”

2

There are worse things than going to Judge Bay's costume party. At the moment, though, I can't think of any. Things I
can
think of?

How Bren looked at me when I asked to come.

How Stringer looked at me when I bought the roofies.

How it shouldn't be this easy. This is not who I am. It's
not
.

And yet both of them looked at me like it is. Bren was so happy and Stringer . . . Stringer wasn't surprised. I wish he had been.

I keep telling myself I can do this. I will drug Jason Baines's drink. I will wait until he's passed out. I will install a hidden tracking app on his cell.

I will be okay.

But now that I'm at Bay's home, I realize my plan is super stupid. I had no idea how massive the judge's house is or how many people were going to be here. It's a Carnivale party, which I thought meant feather headdresses and bedazzled bikinis, but I guess when you live in the South, it means resurrecting a tragic Halloween costume.

Seriously. The Tinker Bell to my left looks rode hard and the genie on my right . . . that may not actually be a costume. If Jason Baines is here, I'm going to have a hard time finding him—and if I do find him, how exactly am I supposed to get the roofies into his drink? Which also presumes he's drinking.

I'm going to screw up everything.

“I don't want to be here,” I whisper.

“Yes, you do.” Next to me, Lauren readjusts her cat ears. I'll be honest, it was kind of awesome running into her. My best friend's family is well-connected, and she often attends parties like these with her mother. I pretty much expected to see them, but part of me still went boneless with relief.

It's probably the same part of me that's responsible for my stupid plan of attack. Or it's the part of me that's gone soft. I used to operate alone. I
still
operate alone and yet . . .

“You being here makes Bren happy—and Bren could use a little happy.” Lauren tugs her fingers through her almost black hair, trying to smooth it. Pointless really. The wind is picking up and no amount of Restoration Hardware heaters or outdoor fireplaces is going to hide the fact that it's freaking February.

“What if someone asks her about Todd?”

“They wouldn't dare.” She says it with such a forceful smile I almost believe her.

Until that smile vanishes.

“Oh shit,” Lauren hisses, and I follow her gaze to Mrs. Cross, her mother. She's talking to some guy in a Phantom of the Opera costume, her face absolutely white, her mouth fish-gulping for air. She's on the tip of another panic attack, and just like that, my best friend's melting through the crowd.

I start to follow, stop. Lauren won't want me there. Neither of them will. Lauren and I aren't friends because we like the same ice cream (even though we do) or because we like boy bands (even though we don't). I think we're friends because our mothers are damaged. My biological mom committed suicide. Her adoptive mom is imploding.

I hate it for Lauren, but it's an unexpected windfall. Bren thinks I'm with Lauren. Lauren's consumed with her mom.

Leaves me open to do what I need to do.

I turn toward the house and, like I'm living in some cheesy movie, spot Jason near the bar. He sees me and gives me a tiny nod, dark hair flipping into his eyes. I'm not sure if it's in acknowledgment of how we used to work together or who my father is. Either way, I suddenly know how I'm going to finish this.

I elbow my way to the bar and order a Red Bull, play with my straw and glass until the bartender moves down to get drink orders from a Captain Kirk. There are two empty stools between Jason and me, but I can still feel his gaze crawl up my skin like spiders.

“Can you believe this?” he asks. The question's so quiet I nearly miss it.

“No,” I say, and immediately I wish I hadn't. Agreeing makes me more like him and less like the girl I'm going to be.

I keep my eyes on the people around us, fidgeting with my zombie Alice in Wonderland costume. Even if I weren't meeting with Jason, this kind of party makes me anxious. It's where I'm supposed to belong now, but I've been living this life with Bren for almost a year and it still feels borrowed.

In the corner of my vision, Jason shifts. He's in a fifties-style suit, dressed up as a Mad Man, I guess, and as he leans closer, the jacket falls open. “So why're you here?” he asks.

“To see you.” I push one hand into my skirt pocket, feel the Rohypnol roll like pebbles. “I have a message. From him.”

The dealer goes so still I know I've got him.

“From your dad?” he asks.

For the first time, I dare to fully look at him, raise both my eyebrows in a
Who else do you think, idiot?
way.

Jason smacks one hand against his suit jacket, exposing an enormous gold watch before he fishes out his iPhone. The screen is illuminated with an incoming call. “Give me one second,” he says. “I'm working.”

“He'll be glad to know.” Jason's gaze swings to mine, holds, and I can see nothing but want in his eyes: How he wants my father's approval. How he wants to belong.

How I can use that against him.

So while Jason paces with whoever's on the cell, I put two roofies in his beer. At least, I think it's his beer. I'm almost positive.

After a few minutes, Jason circles back to me, grinning. “Cheers,” he says, and clinks his beer—I was
right
—against my Red Bull. He drinks the Heineken in two long pulls. “What does he need?”

“Wait for my friends to leave,” I say, and Jason nods.

We watch everyone but each other, and twenty minutes later, I tell him to follow me.

 

Since most of
the party is near the rear of the house, I push toward the front. The number of guests starts to thin and I turn down an empty hallway, skin-crawlingly aware that Jason's only a few strides behind me. I'm trying to look like I'm searching for a bathroom. He's trying to look like . . . I have no idea. I refuse to turn around. With every step, I'm chickening out.

“Where you goin', Wick?” He's closer than I thought and sweat pops up between my shoulder blades.

“Somewhere quiet.” I turn to face him. “My dad said this was really important. We don't want any interruptions.”

“Good idea.”

You won't think so when we get there—
if
we get there
. His skin is shimmery with sweat and his eyes are dilated. The roofies have hit him hard. I have two minutes. Maybe.

I shoulder open the nearest door, spilling both of us into a dimly lit home office. Jason plows into me from behind, closing a fist around my arm. “What did Michael say?”

I shudder. Another name I hate. My father's.

“What's he want?” Jason asks, giving me a shake.

I shove him. Hard. Thank God for the Rohypnol because he spins, staggers, and drops onto a leather sofa wedged under a picture window. I close the door behind us, slump against the wood. My costume is twisted from where he grabbed me and my dark wig is crooked. I pull it off, shake my hair loose.

Jason's face screws tight. “What the hell is your problem?”

“You.”

He stabs both hands into the couch, tries to stand, and falls. Horror crawls across his face. “Did you—”

“Give you a little trip? Yeah,” I say, knowing he'll never remember it. Like roofie victims before him, his memory of tonight is going to smear into an ugly blank. I come a little closer. “Do you even care what happens to them?”

Them. The girls. They don't have names. Ends up not mattering though because Jason doesn't pretend to be confused.

“No, I don't.”

“I do.” In fact, I like telling myself that's the real reason I'm here. It's easier than seeing Bren or Lily or Griff behind my eyes. Jason shifts, tries to move, and can't. It's like someone poured him into place. I've seen the look before. I have less than one minute.

“Bitch,” he whispers.

Yes. Probably.
I wait, counting down the seconds and watching something that might be fear shadowbox behind the dealer's eyes.

“Looks like Lell,” Jason mutters, tilts sideways, and passes out.

The hell?
On the other side of the office door, people walk by. Someone laughs and I stiffen. Now is
so
not the time to hesitate. We could be interrupted at any minute, but I can't bring myself to touch him. He smells like the peppermints he's always chewing and it makes my throat funnel shut.

Suddenly, I'm not in Judge Bay's home office. I'm back in my bedroom, smelling peppermints on Todd's breath and watching him slice me open. I need to move and I
can't
move.

Another laugh. Closer this time.

Get going.

I drop to my knees, ramming one hand into Jason's pocket. First the left then the right. There it is. I pull out his iPhone and enter the security code I watched him use earlier. The home screen appears and I load the browser, start downloading a GPS tracking app.

Another moment and I'm done. Jason will never know it's there and Carson can watch him whenever he likes. Though it's weird that he even wants to. I can't help wondering what Carson's angle is. Jason's mid-level. Carson's usually interested in bigger fish.

Best not to think about it.
I use my dress to wipe any prints from the iPhone and slide it into Jason's jeans pocket. Pushing both hands into the floor, I start to stand and something scrapes the window. I freeze as a shadow glides over us.

Shit.

I drop to the floor, scrambling backward on my hands and knees. I hit the desk and, shoulders rammed against its side, I watch the window. The shadow reappears. There's another scrape, a rattle as the window shakes.

He's trying to get in.

I cover my mouth with both hands, chewing down a scream.

He'll catch me. He'll—he's stopping.

The guy leans close to the glass, staring down at Jason. His head twitches and looks straight ahead. Right at me.

He can't see you. He can't see you. He can only see Jason because he's so close.

The shadow pulls back, looks right, then left. If he goes for help, I'm screwed.

He goes right, disappearing into the dark, and my breath escapes in a rush.

Gotta get out of here.
I kick my feet under me, keeping the window in sight as I move toward the door, grabbing my wig from the floor as I pass. My hands bump into the handle and I hesitate. The outside hallway is lit. If he's still near the window, he'll see me when I open the door.