Remember Me (6 page)

“Did you take your meds?” Bren asks me, sliding another waffle onto Lily's plate.

“Yep.”

She beams and I have to fight a smile. I kind of hate that Bren sets the bar so low. Then again, it's nice to be able to make someone so happy. These days, Bren thinks it's a whole new me: no migraines (meds), new hair (blond), and fancy car (gift).

Bren pours more waffle batter into the iron. “I spoke to Dr. Norcut's office. You have an appointment for Monday morning—before school—so it won't interfere with anything.”

Whoopee for me.
“That's great. Thanks.”

Bren double-checks the timer on the waffle iron. “What do you have planned for the day, Wick?”

“Government project I need to finish. I have to go down to the courthouse to take notes during some of the trials and put it in a report.”

Which is a convenient excuse to get a closer look at Bay. He's supposed to be working today. Thanks to government cutbacks and overloaded dockets, the court system runs Saturday court once a month. Bay should be putting in a full load today. After last night, I'm not sure if he will be. Hopefully, I'll get lucky.

Bren's spatula hovers above the waffle maker. “Like at the courthouse with the criminals? Is that safe?”

I smile. Sometimes it's touching how much Bren worries. Other times, I wonder if she thinks I'm an idiot who will wander into the first panel van marked “Free Candy.” “I'll be fine, Bren. If anyone kidnapped me, they would return me. Promise.”

I'm shooting for a laugh. Bren just stares me down.

I sigh. “It's a project the juniors do every year. I'll call you when I'm leaving.”

Bren's face creases into a smile and she looks at me like I've just done the most amazing trick. “Okay, just be careful, Wick.”

“Always.”

 

The Peachtree City
Courthouse shares the same low-slung building as the library. I park by the long-dead fountain and wait in line to get through security—security pretty much being a metal detector and a single overweight cop sitting on a plastic chair, his thumbs jammed into his straining belt.

“Purpose?” Body by Budweiser asks me.

“Research for school.” I hold up my laptop and he passes it through the scanner. No bombs. How very unsurprising. Triple B gives me back my computer without a second glance. It always amazes me that no one realizes I don't need a bomb to do damage. Whatever though. Makes my life easier.

According to the online schedule, Bay should be in the first courtroom, and just as I push through the courtroom doors, he's taking the bench. Considering what happened last night, he looks pretty good—hair's helmeted into place with gel; his eyes snap around the room like he's ready to get started.

Or like he's looking for someone.

It's just past nine a.m. and I have my pick of seats. I head toward the front, staying near the wall so I'm close to Bay, but far enough that I have some privacy. Very few people notice me—probably because I blend better now than I did in my previous life. If I had known Ralph Lauren clothes were an excellent cover, I would've used them.

Then again, if I could have afforded Ralph Lauren clothes, I probably wouldn't have been hacking in the first place.

While the prosecuting attorney presents the DUI case they're about to try, I work on accessing Bay's BlackBerry. It takes me a few minutes before I can pick up his cell remotely—gotta love it when someone's logged on to a public WiFi—and start working through his in-box. Work stuff . . . work stuff . . . dentist appointment reminder . . . calendar invitations . . . more work stuff. Bay's campaign manager sent a list of last election's top donors, and, surprisingly, Lauren's parents are in the top three. Other than that, there's nothing.

Until I get to the very bottom.

Almost a week ago, Bay received an email confirmation from Barton & Moore Security detailing his recent order. From the looks of it, the judge has gone all out: security cameras, motion detectors, and panic buttons in the bedrooms. He's seriously freaked and that's a serious problem for me.

It doesn't say anything about beefing up the family's internet security, but considering it's Barton & Moore, they'll have something in mind for that as well. I scroll down, skimming the rest of the email for anything else that's going to make my life harder, and that's when I see it. The entire email chain between the security firm and Bay started with a single email sent to Bay's personal account. The sender used a Yahoo! email address and there's no subject, just two words that make my skin prickle:

 

Remember Me

 

Same words that were carved onto the dead girl's chest. Within two minutes of receiving the message, Bay had forwarded it to his contact at Barton & Moore. Interesting. Apparently, whatever he's supposed to remember upset him.

As I watch, another email comes through. Barton & Moore again. This time, they're confirming security guards will be arriving tonight. Understandable, considering the murder.

It doesn't explain why the whole security upgrade started a week ago though, well before the death.

Unless Bay suspected something like that might happen.

To my right, someone slides down the bench and turns in my direction. I watch the figure from the corner of my eye, and when it starts to edge closer, I minimize Bay's in-box and pull up a Word document.

“You working on Farenstein's report?”

Ian Bay. I turn slowly to face him and he's closer than I would like. Much closer.

“Yeah, I am,” I say, and have to arrange my features so I don't look so confused. Ian is a weird hybrid at our school. He's too clumsy to be athletic, too knife-faced to be good-looking, but I guess money gives him a pass because he hangs around the popular kids.

Actually, I should say he
tries
to hang around the popular kids. I don't think many of them actually like him.

“You working on the report too?” I ask.

“Already finished it.” He nods in his dad's direction, a fringe of dark hair falling across his forehead. “Kind of the family business.”

Yeah, no shit.
But I smile like that's a brilliant observation on Ian's part and that makes Ian smile wider.

“So I've been seeing you around more, Wick.”

Huh? I've been around. Ian and I have attended the same schools for the past five years. I watched him lose his mom to cancer, heard about his dad getting remarried, and his older brother, Kyle, running off with some chick. I know about him the way everyone around Peachtree City knows about him . . . and me, I guess. There are rumors. People talk. But dead moms and dysfunctional families are everyday news. It's Ian's dad who makes it special, makes
him
special. Anyway, it's highly unlikely he hasn't seen me.

Then I notice the way Ian's eyes inch over my hair. Usually, it's purple or pink or, more recently, Kool-Aid red. Right now it's blond.

Like the girls I see him following around at school.

Suddenly, the way Ian was staring at me last night and the way he's staring at me right now start to make sense.

Can I throw up?

I try to scoot sideways, run into the end of the bench. “I guess I've been getting out more.”

“Yeah, must be hard going around town with your mom and all.”

I stiffen. My mom. This time, the word means Bren. “Why would it be hard?”

“Well, you know, because of . . .” Ian lifts one shoulder, eyes rolling in his head because I'm supposed to get the implication and play along.

And I'm not.

“No, I don't know.” I stuff my laptop into my bag, tug the strap onto my shoulder. I want a copy of that Remember Me email, but not enough to risk it with the judge's kid sitting next to me. “Bren has nothing to hide.”

Ian blinks. “Oh, yeah, agreed. I mean, of course. I wasn't saying—”

Yes, you were.
I edge around him, make my way to the rear of the courtroom and head for the parking lot exit. I'm barely into the hallway though before Ian's stepping on my heels.

“Look, Wick, sorry. I didn't mean to say it like that.” He grabs my elbow and I round on him, fist clenched. Ian shies away, shrinking into the wall, and, to my right and left, people start to stare.

Dammit.

“Don't grab me,” I whisper.

“Because of . . . ?”

My mouth drops open. Because of Todd? I'm suddenly sorry I didn't punch Ian right in the ear. “Because it's rude.”

And yes, because of Todd.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Ian's cheeks go My Little Pony pink, and even though I'm irritated with him, I start to feel bad. It's not like he's a threat. We probably wear the same jeans size. Besides, most people probably wouldn't have a problem with their elbow getting touched.

Which, technically, makes
me
the freak.

Sigh. I need to apologize.

“Look,” Ian says. “I wanted to ask if we could partner on that computer lab project.”

“You're not in my class.”

“I know. I'm in Mrs. Lowe's fifth period. She's okay with it if you're okay with it.”

I stifle a groan. Why the hell would our teacher say that? No
way
do I want team up with Ian Bay. Not only is there the whole
I'm investigating his dad
thing, there's also the problem that two geeks are easier to target than one.

I fly under the radar at school, avoiding anyone who might toss me in the Dumpster (don't ask). Ian tries to fit in. He follows the popular kids around, hoping they'll eventually warm to him. It should disgust me, the way he begs for their attention, but . . .

I heave an enormous sigh. I hate when people pity me, but right now, that's all I feel for him. “Are you sure you shouldn't partner with someone else? I mean, we would have to write the report after school instead of during class and, with everything you have going on . . .”

“That's kind of the thing.” Ian rubs the back of his hand against his nose, making him look like an overgrown kid. “I don't really want to be home right now and I'm pretty much bombing that class. I thought it was going to be way easier and, you know . . .” He shrugs, stuffing both hands into his jeans pockets. I think he's trying for nonchalant. It's coming off as pitiful.

I will be a total idiot if I agree.

So why can't I force myself to say no?

Because I understand what it's like to not want to go home. Because I understand what it's like to be buried.

Because I am that total idiot.

“Okay, fine.” Even though the agreement emerges in a snarl, Ian's eyes go bright. “Email me at this address and I'll send you my notes.” I scribble my personal email onto a piece of scrap paper and pass it to him. He pockets it.

“Thanks, Wick.”

“No big deal,” I say, turning to leave, and, thankfully, Ian doesn't follow me. I make it to the parking lot by myself. Where I see Griff leaning on my car.

It kicks the air right out of me.

“Hey,” he says, peeling himself up.

“Hey.” I unlock my car door, grip it with both hands so I don't reach for him. I am not going to be that desperate.

Even if I'm scared I already am.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask.

“Bren told me. I wanted to apologize. For last night. I get it.”

He doesn't. I can see it in the line of his shoulders, how they tense at the words. He's faking.

“It's okay.” I'm nodding too hard, can't seem to stop. “I understand. You were just upset.”

Griff's eyes spear mine. “You don't have to make excuses for me.”

I do because that would mean the alternative is Griff not understanding the situation—not understanding
me
.

“So.” He shifts from foot to foot, studying the thunderclouds gathering on the horizon. “How did it go?”

I hesitate, still hearing the way he said I was enjoying the job. “It's not going that great. I was able to get into Bay's personal email. It's going to take some more digging.”

Griff nods. “You'll need another computer.”

“Oh! Yeah, no problem. Do you need yours?” I go for the laptop and Griff's hand circles my arm.

“No, no, it's just, you'll need something faster—like what you had before.”

I scowl. “I don't think PD's returning mine anytime soon.”

In one of Carson's earlier attempts to trap me, he talked Todd into giving him my computer, told my foster dad it was for my own protection, and the detective still has it. The thought of forensic computer specialists going through my hard drive gives me serious terror sweats.

It's not that I wasn't careful, I was. I
am
, but all it takes is an undeleted keystroke, a partially remaining file. Used to be I had to worry about what I'd done. Now I have to worry about what I've missed.

Back then all I could think about was how I had to catch the man who was stalking my sister. I would have been dead in the water if it wasn't for Griff. He gave me the laptop I used to trap Todd.

Griff's right though. I do need something else. “Problem is,” I begin, “my old builder won't touch me anymore.”

After Todd was arrested and the newspapers hailed me as a hero, my builder freaked and went underground. He said there was too much attention surrounding me. I figured his paranoia would pass. It hasn't and that's kind of left me up the creek.

I know it sounds weird. If you're into coding and computers, you should be able to build a decent system, right? Not so much. Software hackers, people like me, do software not hardware. Yeah, I know how to build a basic computer with off-the-shelf parts. The problem is what I want—what I
need
—requires a specialist.