I thought, maybe, keeping a diary would break my fall.
—Page 2 of Tessa Waye’s diary
I can tell Lauren about the diary, about everything. The best part of being best friends is that I can tell her anything, or at least I should be able to tell her anything.
Back when Tessa and I were best friends, she said I could always confide in her, but look how that turned out. I scoot my chair closer to the desk so there’s more room between Lauren and me. “I’m not doing anything with it.”
“But why do you even have it?”
She sounds so genuinely bewildered, I waver. I try to think how this might work.
Yeah, so I’ve acquired another stalker. Oh, I didn’t tell you about my first? Well, it’s a long story.
Or, So someone thinks I can find Tessa. Why? Well, I have this little side business. I hack people for money. Oh, I didn’t tell you about that, either?
Stop it. I can trust Lauren. I can. I’m not the girl my dad says I am.
I take a deep breath, but it feels like the air entering my lungs is wearing soccer cleats. “Someone left it for me.”
“Someone left it for you?” Lauren’s eyes drop to the diary, swing up to me. “That’s crazy! Who would do that?”
I stiffen, but . . . she’s not challenging me. Lauren’s outraged. I don’t know what to say. Because for all the times I’ve told myself she’s my best friend, for all the times I’ve told myself she likes me for me, until now, I never believed it. The realization is horrible and wonderful. I don’t deserve this.
So maybe that’s why everything vomits to the surface, splashing up chunks of information. It’s messy, sticky, nothing like my tidy lines of code. Suddenly, I’m spilling everything: about how I’m watching Detective Carson. How Detective Carson is watching me. How the diary just showed up with the note pasted inside.
“Then I got this email.” I double-click my in-box. Lauren and I both read the will you do it? in silence.
After a long time, maybe ten seconds, maybe ten years, Lauren straightens. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Lauren cocks her head. Strands of dark hair slant across her cheek, and she tucks them back with jerky fingers. “How could you not know? You have to find her, like the note says.”
“Because two words mean so much.”
“Wick, you can’t ignore this!”
“You’re damn straight I can’t. Whoever this is knows about my . . .” It’s hard to fit my mouth around the actual word. Not because I’m embarrassed. Well, not really. But aside from Lily, I don’t discuss this with anyone, and the words stagger on newborn legs. “No one is supposed to know about my hacking.”
“Whoever sent this . . .” Lauren studies the email on my computer screen. I watch her eyes trace the words twice more. “Whoever sent this thinks you can help.”
And why the hell is that? It’s not like Tessa and I were close. I mean, we were friends once, but my dad ruined it. It was one of the few times he actually remembered to pick me up. I was at Tessa’s house, and he showed up drunk. I remember being so embarrassed and then just grateful he wasn’t angry or trying to hit me. It should have been a good day.
But the Wayes were horrified, especially Mr. Waye, who said he didn’t want his daughter hanging around such “trash.” Tessa never spoke to me again. She wouldn’t want my help. After that afternoon, she never wanted anything more to do with me.
It makes me the worst person for the job.
Or am I better suited because I knew what really went on behind the Wayes’ closed doors?
“Wick?” I jerk to attention. Lauren is still staring at me. “How did someone get the idea you could help? What kind of hacking are you doing?”
Her question smothers me. “I dig up personal information on people.”
“What kind of personal information?”
“The kind that wives and girlfriends want to know: finances, other women, jobs.”
“Why?”
I start to say something, but Lauren nods. She looks around my borrowed bedroom and she knows.
“I thought you quit, but you never stopped, did you? How long have you been doing this?”
“Three, maybe, four years?” Lauren studies me. I can’t tell what she’s thinking until her attention swings down to the diary. “What are you doing?” I demand.
“Looking through the diary.” She flips past the opening pages, lingers over the torn-out section. “Everyone wants to know why Tessa killed herself. This could have the answers.”
“You can’t do that!”
“You mean you haven’t?”
“Yes—no!” I sound ridiculous. “I did glance through it, but it was wrong. Privacy is important. Just because Tessa’s dead doesn’t mean we can forget that her diary was never intended for anyone else’s eyes. It’s wrong.”
“Fine.” Lauren snaps the book shut, thrusts it at me. “But someone wanted you to read it. Why else would it get left?”
“Who cares?”
“You do. I know you, Wick. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t do something.”
“Bullshit, I don’t care about Tessa Waye.”
But I know I’m lying.