Remember Me (3 page)

I swallow hard and press down on the handle, cracking the door open just enough to slip into the deserted hallway. For a moment, there's no one and I can breathe again.

Then I hear voices.

I pivot to my right and power walk into the living room and the crowd. The costume party is in full swing now. A few people look my way, stare. Do they know? I can't tell and cold sweat rolls underneath my costume. I take one step forward. Two. No one starts screaming. No one asks where Jason is. More eyes slide in my direction . . . and stick.

Maybe it's because I'm dressed as a blood-spattered Alice in Wonderland—that has to be a first—but it's probably not. Some people see me as the girl who brought down her foster dad, the child molester. Others see me as the girl who asked for it.

Yet another reason not to stick around. I push through the other guests, heading for the backyard, where I left Bren and two investment bankers. Fortunately, she's still there and the suits are still enthralled with her. Thank God. I've never been more grateful for my adoptive mom's ability to go on and on about diversification strategies.

“There you are.” Bren wraps one arm around my shoulders, gives me a tight squeeze. I'm so glad to see her I hug her even harder, have to remind myself to let go before I completely crush her fluffy pink Glinda the Good Witch costume.

“I thought you were going to hang around with Lauren,” she says, adjusting the collar of my dress so it's smooth.

“They had to leave.”

“Oh.” The skin between Bren's eyes creases. “Did you have a hard time finding me?”

I almost burst out laughing. I want to tell Bren no, not at all, because I'm not ten and I can get around, but if I don't want to be Carson's pet, my alternative is cute-and-cuddly teenage girl.

Only I don't like that option either.

“I had a hard time finding the bathroom,” I whisper, and everyone smiles indulgently.

Gag. Me. Now.

Bren's attention drifts to my hair, noticing the absent wig. She starts to speak and I cut her off, holding up the dark wig like it's a dead animal. “Sorry. It was itchy.”

The guy to my right glances at his phone. “It's almost time for Bay's speech. Shall we go up?”

Shall we?
Now I really want to gag. Until I realize Bren is kind of digging his attention. Her smile is white and shiny and . . . unfamiliar. I can't remember the last time she looked so happy.

“That would be perfect,” Bren says, gathering a handful of pink tulle skirt. “And if you do decide you want a proposal, here's my card.” She passes him a cream-colored business card and the guy pockets it, eyes still pinned to her like she's made of magic.

He doesn't have a clue. I don't mean that to sound like my adoptive mom isn't amazing. She is. But ever since Todd's arrest, most of the town treats her like total crap. They think she should have known what he was doing and stopped it. Thing is, Bren agrees and she's hated herself ever since.

And while I don't regret taking down Todd, I do regret the blowback on Bren. Maybe if I had handled things differently . . .
better
 . . . she wouldn't be suffering. I saved my sister. I saved myself.

I ruined Bren's life.

Exposing Todd was right . . . and yet.

“Are you friends with the family?” Guy #2 asks.

A brief pause. Bren always hesitates before she lies. “We've known them for a long time,” she says.

But the only reason we even received an invitation to the party is because Bren donated money to Bay's previous political campaigns. They can't afford to snub her even though we can't really afford to contribute anymore. Bren's consulting company is struggling because people around here don't want to do business with her. These guys must be out-of-towners and Bren saw the opportunity. She'll do whatever she has to do to take care of Lily and me.

It's one of the biggest traits we share and I hope she never finds out.

Bren hooks her arm through mine, tucking me close like I'm everything she ever wanted, like we belong together.

It feels so perfect I smile right through the guilt gumming up my chest.

The four of us follow the other guests up to the main house. Inside, most of the furniture has been cleared away and staff in matching burgundy polo shirts is waving us through, motioning for everyone to huddle closer.

I tilt my head toward Bren. “What's going on?”

“Bay's probably going to announce his intent to run for election again next year. It shouldn't take too long and then we can go home. I only have Lily's babysitter until midnight.”

Ahead of us, the judge stands up—probably on some table or chair because he's suddenly two or three feet higher than everyone.

“I want to thank all of you for coming,” Bay says, smiling and adjusting his dark suit jacket. I guess he couldn't be bothered with a costume. “I'm sure most of you know what I'm about to say so I'll spare you any more theatrics and, instead, get to what y'all been waiting for—”

I don't know. I'd say
all
of us is a bit of a stretch, but, judging from everyone's rapt attention, I'm in the minority. Bay gestures to the curtain behind him and it starts to slide open . . . and jerks to a stop as someone screams.

Two women crash into me and I stumble. Bren's pulling me away, but I can't stop staring. I can't believe what I'm seeing.

It's a dead woman.

She's dressed like an angel and propped into a sitting position underneath Bay's enormous grinning photograph. More people plow into us, running for the door, and Bren tugs me close, using one palm to shield my face from the sight.

Too late. I close my eyes and the curl of body blooms behind them. The dead girl's dress is torn halfway off, her chest is bloody, but you can still read the words someone carved:

REMEMBER ME.

3

What's worse than going to a costume party? Sitting in a cop car.

Bren was talking to some officer when Carson spotted us and peeled me away to get my “statement.” Now I'm stuck here, slumped low in the passenger seat and picking at the upholstery while Carson yells at two EMTs who were called to the scene. There are a lot of hand gestures going on. The detective is not a happy camper.

That makes two of us, I guess.

Carson spins around and stalks toward me, yanking open the car door with enough force to make the hinges creak.

“You had a job to do.”

“And I did it. Can I go now?”

“No, you can't fucking ‘go.'” Carson chews his toothpick harder, swinging it from side to side. He's super pissed and I don't care.

Well, I do care, just not in the way I should. I'm not gunning for Employee of the Year—more like Hacker Who Stays Out of Jail. I smile at Carson. He glares at me.

Across the lawn, Ian Bay, the judge's son, catches sight of us and pauses, the red and blue lights from the emergency vehicles twirling over his dark hair. He holds my gaze for so long I look down, pretend I'm hyperventilating. Nothing to see here. Just a scared teenage girl giving her account of the situation to the police. I do
not
need someone from my school wondering why Carson and I are having our second heart-to-heart in less than eight hours.

Carson flicks his toothpick onto the ground. “Who's your friend, Wicket?”

I lick my lips, stalling. I don't know why, but I have always hated the way he says my name. “No idea what you're talking about. He's not my friend.”

When I look up again, Ian is gone, replaced by a set of medics pushing a gurney across the grass, wheeling an unconscious Jason Baines toward the street. He isn't moving and guilt pries into all my corners.

“So you
can
take direction.” Carson's laugh is a dry bark. “I'm assuming you took my advice?”

I turn my face away. “I hope he wakes up.”

“Like it would be a tragedy if he didn't.” The detective's tone is equal parts sarcasm and camaraderie—like we're buddies in on the same joke.

We're so not. If he says this stuff about Jason, what does he say about me?

An officer appears at Carson's elbow. “There are footsteps leading around the side of the house, sir. They head east along the flower beds.”

My hands go cold. East goes directly past the office, past
me
when I was with Jason.

“Could be one of the guests,” Carson says.

“Could be.” The other cop glances down at me, hesitant to say more. “However, there's other evidence that suggests it's the killer, sir.”

I tuck both hands under my thighs and ignore how my armpits have turned swampy.

“Do not move,” Carson says, peeling away to follow the officer.

Not planning to, but thanks for the reminder.
I lean over, put my forehead on my knees, and close my eyes. Only I see the dead girl.

Remember me.

Yeah, I'd rather not. I sit up, look around. Hmm. Well, as long as I'm here.

I prop my feet on the curb and go through Carson's glove box. It's been a while since I've been in the detective's unmarked sedan. Looks like they got my dried blood off the dash. Too bad there are the same fast food bags and junk on the floor. Pig.

Heh.

“Wicket Tate?”

“Yeah?” I answer without thinking and regret it once I turn toward the voice. It's another cop, one I don't recognize.

“I have something for you.” He thrusts a thin, small square at me, gives it a tiny shake. “Take it.”

I shouldn't ease back—makes me look weak—but I do. I don't like this. There's something about the guy's smile that makes the hair on my arms go rigid. “What is it?”

“It's something you should have.”

“Yeah, no thanks, I think I saw that after-school special.”

“Suit yourself.” The cop—Hart, according to his name plate—shrugs and sets the square on the pavement right in between his shiny black loafers and my scruffy black Chucks. He straightens, smiles, and walks off, heading through the rows of parked cars.

Ugh. Now I can't decide whether to be freaked or annoyed.

I'm leaning toward annoyed. Sighing, I look down, toe the square. It's wrapped up like a small, thin present. The bow on top is a little smushed, but the ribbons wave enthusiastically in the chill night breeze.

Crap. Even though I'm pretty sure this ranks right up there with taking candy from strangers, I really want to know what's in there. Why would he want me to have it?

I pick up the present and press it to one ear. No ticking. Doesn't smell funny either. Does that mean it's safe? I have no idea.

I work one finger into the wrapping paper seams and pull the tape away. Underneath, there's a thin line of ribbed plastic. It feels like a DVD case.

I rip off the wrapping paper, find a DVD case. The cover is homemade, one of those white cardboard labels where you write in your title with a marker. Whoever did this one used a thin-tipped pen, making the words hard to read in the dark.

I lean the case toward the floodlights and my stomach bottoms out. The cover says:

June Interviews

And below:

Sia Tate

That's my mom. My
real
mom. She committed suicide four years ago, left my sister and me alone with our drug-dealer father. I hate her. I should pitch the case across the yard on principle.

I should . . . I end up opening it. Inside, there's a glossy DVD and, on the other side of the label, someone wrote:

Enjoy

“Wick?”

I jerk, nearly dropping the DVD. Bren is standing a few feet from me, cell phone in one hand, car keys in the other. “Are you done giving your statement?”

Hell yes I am.
I clutch the DVD to my chest and hop up, ready to bolt when Carson reappears. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Callaway. I need to ask Wicket a few more questions.”

Bren frowns. “Detective, Wick was with me. She doesn't know anything more than any of us do about—”

“Please, Mrs. Callaway, the death may be drug related.” Carson's eyes swing to me, and, before I realize what I'm doing, I've jammed the DVD under my costume's skirt. “Unfortunately, Wick has a better perspective than most civilians on that sort of thing.”

The reminder ripples through Bren. Her eyes briefly close. “Are you okay with that, Wick?” She looks at me. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

And risk slipping up and revealing what I do with my free time? No way.
I shake my head, string up a smile. “It's okay. I'll meet you at the car.”

Bren nods, turning to thread through the crowd, heading in the same direction Hart took.

“Drug related?” I ask.

Carson shrugs. “Baines was here, wasn't he?”

“He was nowhere near the victim.” I hesitate. “Who was she anyway?”

“Bay's assistant, Chelsea Martin.” Carson waves one hand like he's flicking away a fly. “I think those words—remember me—are a message. It's Bay's assistant, Bay's house, Bay's party. It's got to mean something for him.”

I hate to admit it, but I agree. During those first hysterical moments, Bren had me pulled tight against her, facing away from the dead girl. I ended up staring straight at Bay. I saw him see the body, watched the sight sink into his blood and bones, turn his face green then gray.

The judge didn't look horrified. He looked . . . resigned, like this had been inevitable.

“I thought it was interesting that he went for his phone right off,” I say.

Carson snorts. “Calling nine-one-one is a common practice when you find a dead body.”

“Yeah, I just don't think he did.” I straighten the hem of my dress and decide I'm pretty badass for sounding fine when my insides have turned to sludge. “He was on the phone too long, talking and talking and then, finally, just listening, even after the medics arrived. If he had been talking to nine-one-one, he would have hung up.”