“Wick, police officers are supposed to be good.”
Sure they are, I think. And parents are there when you need them, your teachers care what happens to you, and someday your prince will come. But Lily knows all those lies, so I don’t say a word. My sister is vibrating in the dim light. Anything more and she’ll splinter.
“Well, yeah, usually they are,” I say.
But this one isn’t. The unspoken words hang between us, suspended with strobe lights.
We stand in Bren’s kitchen long after Carson’s left. All around us, shadows are draining down the walls. In my panic, I didn’t realize how close we were to dawn.
“Why was he really here, Wick?”
“I already told you.” I rub my eyes until colors erupt in starbursts. “He wants Dad.”
“But Dad’s not here.”
Yeah, exactly, so where does that leave you? It leaves me with the hacking. He must know about my . . . extracurricular activities. My chest shrinks around the thought. I don’t answer Lily. I could. I even have a ready-made excuse for just such an occasion.
Actually, I have several.
Consider these my top three desert island, can’t-live-without-’em picks: Carson’s here because our dad ran and Carson thinks we’re helping him stay on the run. Carson’s here because our dad ran and we’re now Carson’s last connection to him. Carson’s here because he’s looking for any loose ends he can further unravel.
They’re all very tidy little excuses, but I can’t seem to say any of them because there’s a tiny, nagging sensation eating up my insides. It’s very small, but it has teeth and claws.
Lily’s stiff, like the same thing eating me might be eating her, too. And when she turns to face me, I know it is. There’s accusation in her eyes.
“He must know. You have to stop hacking.”
“He doesn’t know, and I’m not hurting anyone.” Lily glares at me, and I roll my eyes. I refuse to feel guilty about this. The spiky knot blooming in my throat is not regret. The tightening in my gut is not worry.
It’s anger.
“I’m not hurting anyone who doesn’t deserve to be hurt,” I amend.
And I’m pretty sure that’s true. No, I am sure that’s true. I run online investigations. I specialize in cheating husbands. Yes, it’s hacking, but it’s not hacking to crash servers or set loose viruses.
And yeah, sure, I do it for a price. I charge for invading some guy’s privacy, for looking through his bank records or email files. But Lily and I need the money, and these women—my customers—need answers. I make sure they really know who they love. I make sure no one ends up like my mom did. Every single one of my customers begs for help, thanks me when I finish. I’ve said “you’re welcome” so many times, the words taste bitter.
I’m Robin Hood with Kool-Aid-colored hair—a hero—but Lily’s looking at me like I’m some sort of villain, like I would twirl my mustache while tying busty girls to train tracks, like I let her down.
“We have Bren and Todd now, Wick.”
“Oh yeah?” Oddly, analyzing the situation calms me. I look at Lily and feel stronger. “For how long? Dad’s been gone for almost a year and the last three homes didn’t keep us past a couple of months. We have to look out for ourselves.”
“But what about—?” Lily waves one hand at the door, unable to bring herself to say Carson’s name.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” She ought to know I’m full of shit, but Lily relaxes like she believes every word. You’d think it would make me feel proud.
She flings herself into me and we hug. Hard. “Lil, if I get enough money, it won’t matter when they throw us out. We’ll be able to go anywhere. I know you hate the hacking, but the money will keep us safe.”
“If we need it.”
“When we need it.”
Upstairs, a shower cuts on, and a woman starts singing about how the hills are alive with the sound of music.
For God’s sake, Bren. I run one hand over my face. No one has a right to be that happy without serious meds being involved. It’s just annoying for the rest of us.
Usually, I would get Lily to agree with me, but she’s already gone. I can hear her dashing across the upstairs hallway, making for her bedroom. She knows the game. When Bren comes to wake us up, Lily will need to look like nothing happened. I’ll need to look like nothing happened.
Except I feel so shaky, I know I’ll never pull it off. I’m not in the mood for sunny. In fact, I’m not in the mood for any of this. I need space. So I shove my feet into my battered Converse sneakers—the only things left from my wardrobe Bren didn’t pitch into the garbage—and bang through the front door.
It would be a pretty excellent exit too if I didn’t nearly trip and fall on my face. Something tangled up my feet. I twist and see a small, brown package sitting on the top step.
It’s addressed to me.
It wasn’t here last night.
But Carson was. The idea pops sweat between my shoulder blades. I start to walk away, but that won’t work. Bren will only find it and then there will be questions and I’ll have to come up with answers and I don’t have the energy.
The package is the size of a paperback novel. I could fit it in my messenger bag, throw it away later.
Because I definitely shouldn’t open it.
Because he definitely has to be playing some game with me.
But if I don’t, I’ll look scared. Worse, I’ll know I’m scared.
Scared enough to go back inside? I look at the house, think about explaining it to Lily, think about explaining it to Bren.
Yeah, never mind. I hook two fingers into the wrapping’s edges and rip. The result is a pretty big letdown. Carson’s left me a water-stained book.
Well, okay then. I rub my thumb along the frayed binding, irritation pinching all my insides like mosquitoes are eating me alive. Is Carson trying to make friends? Not freaking likely. So what’s his angle? I can’t figure it out, and instead of feeling relieved, I feel foolish.
And worried.
And even though I know I’m alone, I cut a quick glance up and down the street. Nothing. No one. I’m safe. But I still want to run.
There has to be something I’m missing here. There has to be a point I’m not understanding. I pick at a pear-shaped stain on the book’s corner.
Maybe there’s a message. I open the cover, and amusement temporarily overrides my confusion. This isn’t a book. It’s a diary. Well, whatever.
I didn’t think people did this sort of thing anymore. I’ve never been attracted to the idea myself. I mean, why would you want to publish all your secrets? Why would you want to write down everything that scares you?
It’s like making a map of your weaknesses. It’s not smart. But all that aside, why would someone send it to me? Then I flip to the next page, and my stomach rocks to one side, settles upside down.
I know who owns the diary. The script is a little smoother, but I recognize the fat, curly letters even before I see the name written at the bottom. She used to write it on all my folders. It made my stuff look like it belonged to her. I never minded. I thought it made me look like hers. Like I belonged to her.
But I haven’t spoken to Tessa Waye since sixth grade, and I seriously doubt she’s trying to reconnect now. This doesn’t make any sense, and I don’t know why I turn another page, but I do and there it is: a single yellow Post-it Note pasted across some random Wednesday morning’s entry. It says:
Find me.