He said if I told anyone, he’d kill me. I believe him.
—Page 49 of Tessa Waye’s diary
Find me? There’s a flickering under my scalp, a tingling along my spine. The annoying mosquitoes have grown into spiders. They’re crawling across my skin. What the hell is this?
I turn the Post-it Note over like there’s going to be some better explanation on the other side, and naturally, there isn’t. There’s just Find me in slanting black letters. The handwriting doesn’t match Tessa’s. The two words are stabbed across the paper.
“Morning!”
The voice makes my feet stutter against the sidewalk. It’s another jogger, and no matter how perky his greeting, the dude looks miserable. He slogs down our street, his tennis shoes trailing heavily along the asphalt.
“Morning!” It’s a half-assed response, and that won’t work. My voice sounds scraped and scared instead of bright and perky. A tone like that could draw a round of “Are you okay, little girl?”
So I summon up a thousand-watt smile, but it ends up not mattering. The guy’s halfway up the hill now.
I glare at his back, hating him for noticing me. It happens a lot now. I blame Bren. In my old clothes and my old life, no one noticed me. Now I’m on the rich side of town, wearing Abercrombie. I’m all . . . approachable.
Damn it all.
Above me, the pink sky is marbled with clouds. It’s going to be another gorgeous day. Lots of sunshine. Probably a breeze. Other than the diary, there’s no sign of Detective Carson, and even better than that, there’s no sign of my dad.
It ought to make me feel loads better. But I don’t. Find me clings to me with spiderweb strings. I can’t wipe it away. I start to close the diary, and a dirty fifty-dollar bill falls on my sneakers.
I usually take a small payment up front before beginning a job, but that’s via an online wire transfer. I don’t take personal deliveries on any of my work, and I sure as hell don’t find people in the real world. I do cyberspace. I’m kind of specific.
I’m also supposed to be a secret.
There are only three people who know about me, and none of them would make contact like this. That means . . .
Someone else knows.
Any other student might look weird showing up at school at seven in the morning, but I’ve been taking computer courses every semester since freshman year, so I don’t look any weirder than usual when I edge through the gym’s side door. Homeroom doesn’t start for another hour and a half, so I have plenty of time and minimal witnesses. Exactly the way I like it.
I stop by my locker, trading my history book for my math notes, before heading to the computer lab. Mrs. Lowe leaves the classroom open in case her students need to use the equipment for one of her assignments. She should know better. Really. I mean, anyone could walk in here and start using the computers for their own purposes.
People like me, for instance.
I push open the door, anticipating a stretch of isolation, and realize it’s so not going to happen. I’m not alone. In my haze, I missed seeing Griff, my lab partner. He looks up, and his eyes kind of . . . flicker. I don’t know how to describe it, but I know he’s surprised.
Maybe it’s my hair. I’m a natural blonde, the kind of pale yellow that belongs to princesses in fairy tales, Barbie dolls, and my dad. So I dye it. Frequently. I changed the color to dark red yesterday afternoon, picked the shade because it would make me look like a graphic novel character. I thought the superhero red looked awesome. I guess Griff doesn’t agree.
I don’t care—I don’t—but my ears still go all hot. These days, I keep wishing I were someone else even though I kind of am. My new life is crammed on top of me, pinching like it will never, ever fit. I hate how stupid I feel. Maybe my mom felt like that too. Maybe that’s why she jumped. Makes me wonder if she had the right idea.
She didn’t, of course—I’d never leave Lily like she left us—but the running-away part I get. She was escaping my dad. It was her salvation, but it made our lives worse.
“You’re here early.” Griff’s smile feels like a kick to my stomach. He straightens—so he can see me better—and I have to fight the urge to squirm. I don’t know why he pays attention to me. It makes me nervous.
“Yeah, pretty early.” I start to say more, mention something about my upcoming English project, anything that won’t keep me standing here like a total dork with my mouth hanging open, but I don’t. This is kind of a problem I have with Griff. He has the weirdest bottle-green eyes. They’re very clear, and they make me feel very . . . muddy.
I clear my throat. “I actually got up on time.”
“Me too.” Griff returns to concentrating on his notepad. He’s drawing again—actually he’s always drawing and I want to ask about it, but I chicken out.
You’d think we would be friends. Until I went into the foster system, I lived two streets away from him, but we’re nothing alike. Griff moves pretty easily through school. He’s funny, gets along with everyone, and has even been known to save bullied band geeks. If I stood up to one of Matthew Bradford’s roid rages, I’d be a smear on the gym floor. Griff never hesitated. Part of me really admires him for it. . . . Part of me is jealous he can pull it off.
I weave through the scattered chairs, heading for the computer workstation closest to the rear. Lauren Cross, my best friend, would say it’s my favorite, but probably because it’s her favorite too.
Back here, there’s a little more room for my stuff, and I can lean against the concrete walls. If anyone asks, I say it’s because I like to sleep through the lectures. But honestly, I just like it better. It’s almost as good as being invisible.
I have a few things for my biology class I should do, but I’m not in the mood to mess with any of them. Carson is branded on my brain.
He’s after our dad. And I say have at it, buddy. Party on. Unless . . . unless he knows about me. Could I have made a mistake? Could it have led Carson to me?
I don’t think he left Tessa’s diary—I don’t think he even noticed it was there. Doesn’t mean the detective isn’t keeping tabs, though, and if he wants a closer look at me, I should get a closer look at him. Email would be a good starting point. I don’t remember if he had a BlackBerry, but they’re easy enough to break into if he did.
In fact, I’d love to start now. The want is bad enough to make my teeth ache, but I don’t dare try anything at school. The availability of hardware is attractive, but not enough to chance the administration’s spyware. I’m not willing to risk it.
Yet.
A few Google searches never hurt anyone, though, and I spend almost forty minutes scrolling through online newspaper articles that mention Carson. His picture is on the police department’s website, and there’s a blurb commending him for his superior level of community involvement.
Community involvement? Is that what we’re calling it now? Carson’s grinning like a jackass, and I’m sure it’s supposed to be charming, but all I see is the skull behind the smile.
Outside the classroom, the noise level is swelling. Windows line the front half of the computer lab, and I can see more students dragging in from the parking lot. Their voices are unusually low, humming like wasps.
Well, except for one.
Jenna Maxwell is crying.
Sobbing, actually.
This is unusual for a lot of reasons. Mostly because Jenna is never unhappy. She has the proportions of a Bratz doll and the temperament of a pit viper. She’s president of our class, heads up the Beta Club, and enjoys watching nerds get tossed into Dumpsters.
As one of those nerds, I’m pretty interested in anything that would make Jenna cry. Part of me really hopes her convertible’s been keyed, but I would also settle for an STD.
Jenna briefly disappears into a pack of girls, and I slide my eyes back to the computer screen. Something’s definitely up. There’s too much hugging going on.
“Amazing,” Griff says, stretching his arms behind his head. “I didn’t think she was programmed to cry.”
“Yeah, it makes her look almost lifelike.” The words shoot out of my mouth before they can be swallowed, and I envision them writhing around on the table in front of me.
Shit. I cut my gaze to Griff. He’ll look at me the same disappointed way Bren and Todd do. The same way everyone does.
Except he doesn’t.
Our eyes touch, and one side of his mouth slants up in what might very well be a smile. It makes my insides grow two pounds heavier, and suddenly, I don’t know what to say. I should look away, but I don’t.
Actually, I don’t think I can.
Griff has a smile that can charm teachers, but never cheerleaders. I spent all last year kinda sorta maybe wanting him to give me that smile. Then he did, and I had no idea what to do.
Apparently, I still don’t.
Griff returns to studying the cluster of girls. “I always thought they were frenemies. I guess she really was close to Tessa.”
Was? I sit up a little, pressing my shoulders into the plastic chair. “What do you mean?”
Griff takes so long to answer I don’t think he’s going to respond, but finally he says, “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Tessa jumped off a building.”
The room narrows and narrows until it’s sleek and long. I focus on Griff, who looks embarrassed, like he’s afraid I’ll cry.
Most people get that way when they’re talking to me about jumpers. They stare at me, but they can only think about my mom.
“Tessa jumped off a building?” I repeat it carefully, because the words in my head are so loud I worry they’ll spew from my mouth: Find me. Find me. Find. Me.
“Yeah, it was early yesterday.” Griff passes one ink-stained hand across his face. It does nothing to loosen his gritted expression. He shakes his head like Tessa’s news is a bone he’s choking on.
I concentrate on the computer keys, but all I can think of is the diary curled up in my bag, pressing against my leg. You can barely see the bulge, but the edges are blooming razor blades.
“There has to be some sort of mistake.”
“That’s not what Jenna’s saying.” Griff reaches into his pocket, pulls out his cell. After briefly fiddling with the keypad, he shows me the screen. It’s Jenna Maxwell’s Facebook page. “She says Tessa committed suicide.”