Watched (9 page)

Miranda has only been in my life for less than a day, but I love the way she makes me smile. She just never gives up, not on the crazy idea that we can take down King—not on me.

I can't remember the last time anyone had faith in me like she does. No. That's a lie. I can. I just don't want to. Dad used to talk to me just like Miranda does, like he somehow assumed that I could do anything I put my mind to. I remember the glow of pride I'd feel when we'd finish working on one of his cars and wash the grime off side by side, filling the sink with black suds, me basking in his presence.

I blink hard and fast, willing away memories of him. He's gone and he's never coming back and who needs him anyway? I can do this. I can handle King and my uncle, take care of my family. Even if he couldn't. Loser.

“Where to?” I ask her, surprised my voice sounds choked. I clear my throat to cover it.

“Altoona,” she answers. She gives me an address. There's a clacking sound in the background and I know she's typing on her computer, working her cybermagic. “It should be open by the time you get there.”

I turn the truck engine on, plug the phone in to charge as we talk—thankfully it fits the same adapter as the one for King's phone. I lean back in the driver's seat as I steer the truck down the mountain and have to adjust the rearview mirror because for once I'm sitting up straight and tall instead of hunched over the wheel.

Thanks to Miranda.

“I never had a chance to thank you,” I say, feeling suddenly shy. “For finding me. For doing all this.”

She stops typing and pauses. “You are very welcome, Griffin.” It sounds like there might be a smile coloring her voice. I hope so. Like to think I can make her smile. “But you're the one doing all the hard work. We're in this together.”

That makes me feel even better. I'm not used to being part of a team. “Are you sure this is safe? I mean, King won't be able to trace you, will he?”

“Not if I get this right,” she mutters, determination lacing her voice. Silence except for the keys clicking in the background. “Hey, Griffin?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you just talk to me? Keep me awake while I work this out?” She sounds exhausted. “I know it's crazy. It's just that I'm not used to having anyone to talk to. It feels good.”

“I'll bet you have tons of friends,” I say, embarrassed about how my life must look to her. I mean, look at me, no friends, no life beyond what my uncle and King plan for me, no hopes or dreams or any of that normal high school shit. Right now the most I have to live for is crushing my mother when she learns the truth about my uncle.

I've just begun to realize the enormity of the price we will pay if we win. But the price of losing is even worse.

It's a few moments before I realize Miranda hasn't answered me. I'm so used to disappearing inside my own head that I can't even carry on a normal conversation. Doofus.

I wrack my brain trying to think of a neutral, nonloser topic when she says, “Griffin, what kind of life do you think I lead? Tell me what you think my normal day is.”

That's a weird question. What kind of day did any fourteen-year-old girl have? “You mean like, tell you what I imagine? Kind of like a story?”

This is the strangest conversation I've ever had. With anyone. Much less a girl I like. A girl I want to like me.

The smile returns to her voice. “Yeah. Tell me a story. The story of my life.”

I echo her smile. It feels strange, like I haven't done it in a long, long time. Not just rearranging the muscles of my face, but feeling it on the inside. That nagging corner of my brain, Mr. Reptile, urges me to be careful. Being happy, caring too much, daring to hope—these can all lead to disaster and pain.

Right now I don't care.

“Once upon a time,” I start, and Miranda breaks out laughing.

“No, silly. The real story. I wake up in the morning and…”

I lean back, losing myself in fantasy. Used to be I was so good at this—ever since I was a kid, I've been a big reader, could lose myself in a story. Escaping to fantasy worlds where the imprisoned prince fought free of the ogres or a magic spell ended the nightmare…it was how I survived those first months with my uncle.

Until that weekend at the motel. Right before I turned thirteen. No amount of fantasizing provided an escape after that. I had to learn how to throw up a barrier, deny my feelings.

And now Miranda threatens to breach those walls.
Danger!
Mr. Reptile Brain is shouting.

I ignore the warning and start. “You wake up to music. Happy music, something that makes you feel like dancing. And birds singing outside your window. Your room is bright and cheerful, done all in—” I almost say pink but don't. Too predictable and that's not Miranda. She's much more sophisticated than that. “Shades of red and gold, like ribbons on a Christmas present. You hop out of bed, already smiling, because you know this day is going to be great.”

“Really? What makes it so great?” she asks, not challenging the fantasy; instead, her voice sounds like she's half-asleep.

“You're going to meet me, of course,” I ad-lib. Then I get nervous—have I pushed it too far?

“Cool. What are we going to do on this perfectly great day?”

“There's no school today.”

“Of course. Never on a perfectly great day.”

“So we'll—” A memory pops into my head—my own perfect day fantasy from when I was young, before my dad left us. It never happened; it was one of those grownup promises that parents make when they leave you to walk home from school in the rain because they were stuck in line waiting for an interview for a job they don't even get and couldn't come pick you up. But that doesn't matter because now it's even better, sharing it with Miranda. “We'll pack a picnic lunch and drive out into the country, over the mountains and past the farms until we reach a meadow that smells of hay rolled into bales—”

“Oh, I love that smell. And the way the hay bales shimmer gold against the green fields when the light hits them just right.”

“That's where we are.” My smile widens. I'm thrilled I've got something right, found a place where we could meet. Even if only in our imaginations. “Wait. It gets better. There's a hot air balloon lying on its side, filling up. We walk inside it and it's like being inside a beautiful stained-glass cathedral.”

“Or a kaleidoscope,” she whispers. “Color and light all around us.”

“Exactly. We watch the colors change as the balloon fills and then it's time to go.”

“Where?”

“Up in the air, of course. We'll have champagne and—”

“I don't drink.” Suddenly she sounds very serious. Did I break the spell?

“Cider and strawberries,” I quickly amend, “and chocolate and—” I stall, realizing I have no idea what her favorite food is.

“Chocolate truffles, the dark ones—and that chocolate cake with the frosting, what's it called…ganache. I love that.”

I have no idea what she's talking about, but she makes it sound delicious. “Anything you want, it's there. At first there's the rushing noise of the hot air lifting us higher and higher, but then everything is silent. It's just us and the breeze, floating like a cloud across the countryside. We look down and we can see our shadow gliding over the fields.”

“It's beautiful,” she sighs. “So peaceful. So romantic,” she adds and the glint of humor is back in her voice. “What do we do next?”

My entire body thrills with the idea that she wants more from me. Not like my uncle or King's demands. Miranda wants me, the real me. A flush of heat rushes over me and I want to be with her in real life, see her face, touch her hair, touch every part of her. Not the horny, hot and sweaty ready for sex kind of want that guys my age are supposed to feel…not sure if I can ever feel that way. I think maybe my wiring has been too damaged. But I want—no, need—to get close to her. I want that kind of connection. Not about sex, more about…trust is the best word I can think of.

I almost say the words, almost trust her with my true feelings, but the silence has gone on too long and I lose my nerve. “Next we float over to a carnival and we climb down from the balloon onto the top of the Ferris wheel and ride it around and around until we're dizzy.”

There's a slight pause, and I know I've disappointed her. She wanted something else. So did I. But I don't tell her that.

“Thanks, Griffin. That was a spectacularly perfect perfect day.”

I perk up even though I realize she's just being polite. “Next time maybe you can tell me what your real life is like.”

Silence thuds between us.
Way
to
go, bozo
, I chide myself.

Our sweet little fantasy shattered, I drive on. Stupid to dream anyway, not with having to deal with King—and my uncle. What was I thinking, hoping to ever have a chance with a girl like Miranda?

The code on the screen in front of Miranda blurred as she choked back tears. Griffin was so very sweet. No one had ever treated her like he did, and here she was, getting ready to destroy his life. Her first friend in two years and she was betraying him.

Was it worth it? Stopping King?

It was wrong, her using him like this—he still didn't appreciate how much his life would change after he helped her. Even if King ended up in prison, Griffin's—no, Jesse's—life would never be the same.

And if King didn't go to jail…if they failed?

Miranda had an exit strategy, was ready and willing to escape this life if it meant her parents could reclaim theirs. But what about Jesse?

Guilt translated itself into her fingers, and she pounded the keyboard so hard she felt the vibrations echo all the way up to her elbows. She had to get this right. They had to win. They couldn't let King beat them.

“I think I have it,” she finally said. “Now it's time for the dwarves to go to work.”

“Dwarves?” he asked.

“Sorry. My nickname for a group of hackers I'm friends with.” Strange friends. They'd never met IRL, had never even shown each other their faces. They shared one thing in common: they'd all been burned by trolls and cappers like King. Trust most definitely was not their forte. But testing code, making sure it would work without King detecting it—that was right up their alley.

“Why do you call them dwarves? Is that some kind of computer slang?”

She laughed. She loved that he could make her feel normal enough to let down her guard. “No. There's seven of us and they have screen names that are all kind of crazy like Misscreant—I think she's with Anonymous—Topaz, XFactor3, and Dumpty, so it's easier just to call them my dwarves.”

“So does that make you Snow White?”

“Hardly.” Although they had kind of adopted her when she first began snooping around the forums, trying to pick up the skills she needed to track King. “I'm more like the seventh dwarf.”

“Happy,” he said as if naming her. “You must be the one they call Happy.”

If only he knew the truth. Like that crazy fantasy he'd described, nothing could be further from the reality of her life. Yet, he'd painted such a vivid picture—a special world created for her and Jesse alone, no fears, only hope and joy. A true perfectly perfect day built for two. As if maybe someday they could actually share a day like that. Together, outside, in the real world.

“I know you've been busy,” he said. “Don't suppose you had a chance to check on my dad.”

She sighed. So much for fantasy. “About that. Are you positive he was headed to that job interview in Maryland?”

“Yes. The private investigators my mom hired said he never showed up.”

“Where'd your mom find these PIs?”

“I don't know. I remember one was a retired policeman, so probably my uncle—he knows a lot of cops. Why? Did you find him?”

She hated the hope that brightened his voice. “No. But I called the company he was interviewing with. They said he was there—in fact, he got the job. Was supposed to start the following week but never showed up.”

“So he ditched us and a job? Why would he head out with no money, only the clothes on his back, when he could have just taken the job and made some cash?”

“Maybe whatever happened, happened on his way home to you.”

He sucked in his breath. “So maybe he didn't run out on us after all. Maybe he was hurt or kidnapped or hit on the head or—”

“Don't jump to conclusions. I'm running a variety of search parameters. So far no sign of him—dead or alive.”

“But you'll keep looking?”

“Yes. Of course.” At least as long as she was still alive. She glanced at her pillow, the journal nestled beneath it. If she was gone before her birthday—two days from now—King would have no reason to go after her parents; they'd be safe. She hoped. There were no guarantees he wouldn't still target them, but it was one hundred percent certain while she was alive that King would never stop.

But it would mean abandoning Jesse, breaking her promise to him. Maybe breaking more than that…She remembered the look in his eyes on the video that first night. That spark of defiance, yes. But also despair. If she took the easy way out, leaving him to face King and his uncle on his own…

For the first time, her determination wavered. For the past year, the only thing that had kept her alive was her hunt for King—and knowing she had a way out if she failed. That ticking clock counting down to her birthday had kept her focused, given her the strength she needed to face each day.

Could she sacrifice that for Jesse? If they failed to stop King before her birthday, what would King do to her? To her parents?

How could she risk it?

The sound of a car horn blasting came through the phone. “Can you hear me?” Jesse asked. “I'm passing the Tyrone exit, figured I'd say hello.”

She ran to her window and opened it, glad for a diversion from her thoughts. “Do it again. We're not far from the highway.”

He honked again.
Beep, beep.
Two times, like the Roadrunner. The sound was so faint through her window she wasn't sure it was even real. But she wanted it to be, wanted the connection however tenuous to the world beyond her room.

“I hear you!” She felt giddy, almost giggled. Stopped herself. Ariel giggled; Miranda didn't.

She turned away from the window, shoulders sagging, feet dragging as she sat down at her desk once more. This time she focused on her second computer, the one that had no security, that she allowed the creeps into.

Since finding Jesse, she'd ignored it, but now, as soon as she clicked to her inbox, she saw dozens of alerts with Ariel's name on them. Links to chat rooms and forums where men still talked about Ariel. After King's repeated cybersmashing, sending not only Ariel's picture and private details but also information about her parents out into the world of cybertrolls, a rather noisy cult had grown around Ariel—cultivated by King.

Men posted her pictures on revenge porn sites, accompanied with links to her old social media, address, phone, school. Since the companies that ran the sites didn't post the material and their terms of use forbid underage photos, legally they were immune—despite the fact that they never enforced their own rules.

Those were bad enough—especially the comment threads that blossomed around each post. Men boasting about what they'd do to Ariel if they ever spotted her in real life, grading her on her “slut factor,” talking about trying to hunt her down, like she was an animal for them to shoot and bring home as a trophy.

Worse were the “fan” sites that sprang up after her last birthday. Those were even more perverted. Filled with men fantasizing about her and her mom, would they kill her dad first or make him watch? Sick, twisted stories, as if her family's lives were meaningless.

Those scared her. Some were so intense, so detailed she knew their authors were doing more than writing about fantasies. Obsessions were more like it, like the one guy who used King's photos of her and dressed them in wedding gowns and lingerie. He often posted updates about his search for her and her family. Thankfully, he'd never come close.

“Want me to come by and pick you up?” Jesse's voice startled her. She slammed a finger on the computer's power button—she'd find the strength to monitor King's pervs later.

“What?”

“If you're so close, do you want me to stop by?” he repeated. “It'd be nice to meet you. In person, I mean. And we could go together—you could make sure I picked up the right stuff, show me how to use it.” His words emerged in a rush as if he were nervous, could barely get them out.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, making herself small, face down into the dark world she created with her body. “No.”

There was a pause. “Oh. Okay. Guess I'm not exactly the kind of guy you'd like your parents to meet.”

She didn't answer. She hated the disappointment in Jesse's voice—damn it, Griffin. He was Griffin. The whole reason she'd created the screen name for him was so she could divorce herself from him as a person.

Her breathing echoed in the small space as she squeezed her body tighter together, counting by threes in her head. Mom, Dad, Miranda. Three, a magical number, the best number, the only safe number.

She didn't have room for a fourth. For Jesse. Didn't have the luxury of time, not with her birthday and whatever horror King had planned for her family less than two days away.

Stick to the plan. Take down King. For the next thirty-six hours, that was her entire life. She couldn't let Jesse—
Griffin, Griffin
—distract her from that.

And if she was forced to, if it was the only way out, she'd betray Griffin, break every promise she made to him. Whatever it took to save her family.

“Miranda, are you still there?” his voice drilled into her brain.

Three, six, nine, twelve, fifteen…She freed a hand for a quick second to click the phone off, shutting Jesse—Griffin—out. Eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-four, twenty-seven…three, she could only save three, the plan was for three.

But if her new code worked, maybe she could save Jesse as well.
Wasn't that the point, changing her carefully mapped out plan so late in the game?
A rebellious voice whispered inside her head.

She rocked hard in the chair, balled herself up tighter, anxiety quivering through her nerves, her pulse drumming. Could she risk it?

She forced all thought away, squeezed her eyes shut so hard it hurt, and focused on the counting, the soothing numbers, three, three, three…