Trust Me (20 page)

Join me
. Michael says it like it's the easiest thing in the world and maybe it is. Maybe it's always been. Fighting against who I am is what got me here, isn't it?

I study him, look at his suit . . . his shoes . . . his car. Even with the pretty clothes and the prettier vehicle, he still looks rough. In the dark, Michael's blond, short-cropped hair is almost impossible to see, turning his head into a skull, his cheekbones into pits.

“You think I should join you because I lashed back at Joe?” I ask at last.

“Ah-ah.” He wags a finger at me. “Be specific. You had me kill him. You knew what you were asking.”

“I had to save Lily. He was going to hurt her to get to me.”

Michael nods. “Absolutely. Love is leverage, Wick.
Joe understood it. Carson understood it. Norcut and Hart understand it. But look how that worked for them. Look what I've done for you. I've moved worlds for us and I would do more too. That woman who adopted you, she can't give you what I can.”

I stare, feeling like I'm seeing Michael for the very first time. Is that . . .
jealousy
? He's watching me now too, and even though his eyes are smudged with dark circles, they're still as blue as I remember them.

Michael and I have the same eyes, the same hair. We are so alike in so many ways.

But it doesn't matter anymore.

There has to be another way for me. My entire life everyone has told me who I am: I am my mother's daughter. I am my father's right hand. I'm not decent. I will
never
be decent.

They told me evil's in my blood and I believed them. I acted like it was my destiny, but it was my choice.
My
choice. I didn't make it before. I could now. Maybe, just maybe, it isn't about what I've done, but what I'm capable of doing.

If I let myself.

Michael's palm curves against my face and my stomach threatens to heave into my mouth. His eyes inch across my face. Can he tell he makes me sick? Can he tell I'm horrified?

“You used to flinch whenever I touched you,” he whispers and there's something awful underneath his words. It sounds like awe. “But you don't anymore. You are stronger
than I ever believed. Aren't you tired of being everyone else's weapon, Wick?”

“Yes.” And I'm telling him the truth because suddenly I understand how lies aren't the only things that can protect you. I know who I am now. That's going to have to save me.

“Then stop letting them use you,” Michael says and his fingers dig into my cheek, finding the soft spot beneath my eye. “Take control, and come with me.”

“No.”

Somewhere outside the hangar, Martin slams a door shut. Michael leans in close. “Are you sure? I want you to think very carefully, Wick, because there is only one right answer here.”

I shudder even as pity chews through me. For all my father's talk of love, he will never understand it. “I am not a thing to own.”

Michael's fingers arch into claws, igniting my skin with pain.

“It's ready.” Martin appears at the hangar's opening, one hand against the metal frame . . . the other hand pointing his gun at us. At me. “We need to go.”

“A minute,” Michael says, digging in further. My vision blurs and I blink away tears.

“We don't have—”

Pop! Pop!

Martin's knees hit the concrete and his body slumps forward, splays flat. Michael drops his hand and we both shrink away. Blood seeps from underneath Martin,
expanding in an ever-widening pool, and all I can think is:
Martin's been shot.

And immediately afterward:
They're using silencers. This isn't just
catching
us. It's an execution.

Pop! Pop!

I throw both arms over my head as bullets hit the metal siding. Something next to me shatters and I duck.

“Run!” Michael shoves me toward the hangar's other end. “Get to the car!”

I spin around and take off, my sneakers slapping against the concrete. Behind us, someone yells and someone else answers.

Two of them. There are at least two of them.

Pop!

I jerk to the right and my hip collides with a sharp corner—table? Can't tell. I stagger sideways and Michael gives me another shove. “Go!”

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Something heavy collides with my lower back. I make it one step, two steps. Down. I'm down. Am I hit? Both hands skid in front of me, both knees stutter against the concrete, and I twist, ready to wiggle to my feet.

But Michael wrestles me to the floor.

My spine hits concrete. My head follows. There's a starburst of pain and I start swinging. I get in a hit to his face and one to his ear. Michael hisses and clocks me, catching my right temple and spraying colors behind my eyelids.

“Stop it!” He shakes me hard and pries open my fist.
Something scrapes my palm. Paper?

“Take it,” he hisses and I thrash. I slam the heel of my other hand into his nose, feel it crack. Blood spatters my cheeks and Michael rears up, grabbing his face with both hands.

Pop!

Michael shouts, grabs his arm. His face is anguished and astonished and so very red.

I gape . . . gape . . . kick to my feet, feel the swipe of his fingers against my ankle.

Only helps me run faster.

I lift my knees and hit another box, have to splay both arms wide to keep from toppling. I stab one hand against the wall and keep going.

Almost there.

I can see the car! I can see the car!

I'm nearly to it when I realize Michael's not following me and I'm already in the driver's seat when I see him stagger from the hangar . . . and waver.

Two more flashes of light from inside. Two more shots.

And he falls.

For a heartbeat, I hesitate. I'm gasping and gasping and I still can't get enough air. They shot him. Michael's down.

He's
down
.

There's a roaring in my head now and I jerk the driver's door shut, slap my palms across the dash, leaving sticky, bloody prints. Michael's paper scrap unglues, flutters to the floorboard.

I grope along the console. Nothing. Nothing. Noth—
keys
!

I jam them into the ignition and jerk the car onto the road, flooring it. I keep both hands on the wheel and my eyes straight ahead. I don't trust myself to look back . . . but I do stray once. I check my rearview mirror and I recognize the man standing in the road behind me.

It's Hart.

Eventually, I stop
in the darkest corner of a Winn-Dixie parking lot, check my bad arm, feel the rest of me. I'm in one piece, but why is the front of my T-shirt so wet?

Carefully—
slowly
—I open the car door and push to my feet. It's kind of amazing when the world doesn't wobble. I'm steadier than I expected. I stand in front of the headlights and survey the damage.

The front of my shirt and shorts are damp with blood, but it's not mine.

It's Michael's. The thought is so far away it feels like someone else's whisper. When he hit me from behind, it must've been because he was shot.

Then they got him in the arm . . . and then I remember the two flashes of light.

They killed him. My father's dead.

I rub a cold, sweaty palm across my face, smell the oil and dirt on my hands. It makes my breath catch again and I have to remind myself to stop, to
think
.

But all I can think about is this: Everyone's gone. Joe . . .
Michael . . . Carson . . . every tie to my past is gone. The only thing left standing between me and the rest of my life is Looking Glass. I need to take care of that, but
how
? They're expecting me. They'll see me coming, and if I don't move against them, they'll move against me.

Someone's going down, and considering Looking Glass's resources, it's a pretty good bet that someone will be me.

“I'm finished,” I whisper, trying the words aloud. It actually helps. A little. “So what am I going to do about that? I need a plan . . . I need a plan . . .”

I don't have a plan.

I wish I still had my cell. I'd give anything to call Bren right now or to hear Griff's voice.

I climb into the car again and something crinkles under my foot. I peer down at the floorboard and see something next to my sneaker, something like . . . paper?

Yeah, it's paper. And suddenly, I remember Michael shoving something into my hand. It's a note—definitely a little worse for wear now. There's dried blood on the bottom and one corner is torn. I fold down the edges and angle the writing to catch the overhead light. It's four lines of numbers and twenty-one numbers per line. If I had to take a guess, it's four bank accounts.

Presumably,
Michael's
bank accounts.

He wanted me to have them.

I don't know what to make of that so I stare at the numbers instead. I stare until they swim together. I think of
the SD card Michael secured for me, how I could take down Looking Glass. I think of the bank accounts.

I think of the money.

With enough money, you can disappear. I know that. Of all people, I know that so well. I could threaten Looking Glass with what I have and then I could get Bren, Lily, and Griff and we could run. They'd never find us. I could make sure of that.

I take the SD card from my pocket and roll it around in my palm, all of Michael's carefully curated leverage. My leverage now. It's the only thing standing between them and me and Michael made sure I had it.

He took care of me. This was his legacy, and his love, and he knew I would know what to do with this. He knew I was ready.

And I am ready because, suddenly, I know what I'm going to do, what I
have
to do.

I put the SD card onto the console between the front seats and tuck the paper with Michael's account numbers under it. I'm ready, but it still takes me a minute or two before I can put the car in drive. Once upon a time, Griff told me you can't save everyone, but if you're lucky, you can save one person. I've saved my sister, Bren, even Griff, and by giving me this money and leverage, Michael saved me. I don't know what to do with that, but I do know what I have to do next.

Maybe I've always known.

But do I really have the courage to do it?

“Yes,” I tell myself, and tug the gearshift down. The car purrs forward. I keep one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on the paper as I turn onto the main road. I head north. I don't stop and the moon is low in the sky when I pull into the parking lot.

I park under the glare of an overhead light and something beeps. I tense, peer down at my legs . . . the console . . . the passenger seat. There's a soft yellow glow in the shadows. It's a cell phone—a burner most likely. Michael or Martin must've ditched it when we got out of the car.

I run my thumb over the keypad. I shouldn't call. I shouldn't. I do. I dial her number and a sob catches in my throat when I hear her voice:

“Hello?”

“Lily?” My voice cracks and I have to clear my throat. “Haven't I taught you anything about answering strange phone calls?”

“Wick!” Lily's crying and laughing. “Where are you? Bren's coming to pick me up. She said she took Griff to the hospital!”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Is he okay? I mean . . . do you know anything?”

“Yeah, she said he's going to be fine. He's been admitted or whatever, but it's just for observation. Where are you? She's freaking out.”

I lean my head against the steering wheel. I can't tell her. It's not fair for Bren and Griff and Lily to hear secondhand what I'm about to do, but I'm doing the right thing. I
know I am. “I'm safe. Promise. But I have to finish something first.”

“And then it'll be over?”

Tears sting my eyes. “Yes. Definitely. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Lily disconnects and I heave myself out of the car. I lock the doors and then wonder why I bothered.

It's not a far walk to the main office building, but by this time, my head's throbbing, counting every heartbeat. I shuffle along, making it, maybe, ten steps before a beaten-up Crown Vic slows along the street and stops at the curb. No passengers. I can't make out the driver. He or she is just a black shape, a shadow.

Then the headlights flick once and I get it. I almost laugh.

Milo. That's Milo.

He came for me—not so close that he could get caught. It's pretty damn obvious where I am, after all, and he's not going to get too close. I know that about him because I know that about myself. We are alike.

Only, we really aren't anymore. If we were, he'd be down here too. I stand under the yellow parking lot lights, waiting to feel something . . . and there's nothing. No, that's not totally true. There's some pity and some sadness. Milo was right: We are the products of our parents.

But that doesn't mean we stay that way. You can choose your family. You can change your destiny. It's the easiest and hardest thing in the world.

I hope Milo realizes that one day. I lift a hand in a
half-assed wave and the headlights flick again and again. Is he frantic now? Worried? It would be so easy to go to him, but it's not what I want anymore.

I turn around, walk the last twenty feet or so to the door, and open it, squinting under the fluorescent lights. Full-blast air-conditioning hits me and I shiver.

Or maybe I shiver because I know what's coming next.

The officer at the front is half asleep, but by the time I put my hands on the desk, he's sitting straight.

“Can I help you?” he asks, eyes dancing up and down my face. He's trying really hard not to look horrified. It's kind of hilarious.

“Yeah,” I say. “My name is Wicket Tate, and I'd like to confess my crimes.”

Norcut and Hart never saw it coming. That probably doesn't say anything great about me, does it? No one ever thought I'd come clean. It was the one piece everyone counted on.

But I was able to use it.

Funny how that's kind of my life's theme until this point. People have used me and I've used them and now it stops. With me.

I gave the first set of officers my story and all the Looking Glass paperwork. They looked at me, looked at the files, looked at me, and started making phone calls. Or, at least, I guess that's what they did because fifteen minutes later I had a set of detectives to talk to . . . and then another set . . . and then came the Feds.

I'm not sure who called Bren, but she showed up about two hours later with an attorney. After that, everyone
started shouting. Did the police realize I'm still a minor? Why hadn't I seen a doctor? How much longer was I going to be held?

Had I been arrested?

Bren's attorney had a lot of questions. Four days later, we're still figuring out the details. There's a slew of stuff the government could charge me with, but as my lawyer keeps reminding them, I'm the one who came forward. I'm the reason they have this information. I didn't have a legal guardian present during questioning. The police didn't offer me a doctor right away. Was I even in my right mind when I came in?

Blah blah blah.

Bren sat with me during the interviews. She kept one arm around my shoulders, and somehow, it was enough to keep me going—even when they told me I'll be facing charges. We still don't know what kind or how many, which means we also don't know how long I'll spend in prison.

Yeah, I said prison. If it had been other crimes, I probably could've scored juvie. Being that the government is terrified of hackers, I'm looking at a trip to Club Fed. Ten years. Minimum.

The detectives initially thought I'd get a few days to prepare myself, “to get my affairs in order” is what one of them called it, but because I'm considered a flight risk, they're holding me indefinitely. They did let me be the one to tell my family, which was nice of them, I guess. Bren, Lily, and Griff filed into the interview room to see me, and
when I told them I wasn't leaving, Bren wobbled like she needed to sit down. She got on the phone with another lawyer instead.

Probably just as well because, right then, I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to hear about our next legal moves. I just wanted to be next to Griff, and when I squeezed my hand around his, it felt like everything wonderful in the world when Griff squeezed back.

“Please,” he whispered.

I didn't understand, and then he kissed me and I did. Griff kissed me with a mouthful of forgiveness and forevers and I promised him the same. This is how I am with him. This is
always
how I am with him, and when we broke apart, I realized this is how he is with me. They cannot take it.

Lily struggled with my decision. She was pretty angry with me. It hurt, but I understood. We worked so hard to keep me from getting caught and now it feels like I was always destined to be. Except it wasn't destiny. I chose what would happen to me and I made the right choice.

She says she understands, but it's hard. For both of us.

In the meantime, I answer police and Fed questions while I wait for my transfer to a full-time facility. I'm trying to be helpful, but I might have forgotten a few things.

Things like Milo.

Things like Alex.

She sent a postcard to my house. I didn't see it, but Bren told me. There wasn't any note, but the picture had two old
ladies laughing and leaning against each other. The caption said “We go together like drunk and disorderly.” The postmark was from Paris. I'm not sure why, but I really like the idea of Alex living the rest of her life in Paris. It's the City of Light, right? She'd never have to be in the dark again.

Mostly, I've given the agents and officers names, locations—basically, everything I have and everything I know about Michael's operations. The officers are calling him a monster and I agree. He is. It's my heritage, but it's not who I am. It might not be Michael either. In those last moments, my father was someone else. He was human. True, his love was twisted, deformed. He was violent. He used people. But he was also lonely. Normal people aren't the only ones searching for someone who understands them. Monsters search too.

The morning my transfer comes in, the guards take me through the rear entrances, and as I wait for the van to come around, I notice the figure at the fence line.

Griff. He came to see me off.

Immediately, the guards start yelling and threatening and he's smart enough to take off, but not before I see his grin. It's for me alone and I almost laugh. Amazing how his smile warms me like sunshine.

He's attending community college in the fall and will transfer to art school after his hands have fully healed. Bren's pretty much insisting he stay at our house. She wants to make sure he'll be okay. I'm not worried though.
Griff's going to be brilliant.

He's
already
brilliant.

But right now, Griff's running hard in the opposite direction with two heavyset guards in pursuit. They're never going to catch him, but they're hoofing it anyway. The van comes around for me and the remaining guard opens the passenger door, motions me inside.

The driver looks at me and then looks at his clipboard. The name on his shirt says Baker and the badge underneath it is scratched.

“Tate?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, let's go.” Baker heaves himself around and shifts us into drive. We pull away and my stomach clenches so hard I feel like I'm going to be sick. Terror has a way of doing that to you. It fills you up, makes you feel like it's the only breath you'll ever take.

But it isn't and I know that now. I'll get through this.

Somehow.

“Charges like yours,” Baker says, watching me in the rearview mirror. “Usually you go away for a long time.”

I flick my eyes to the windows, try to memorize every pine tree we pass. It's going to be a while before I see stuff like this again. I want to enjoy it while I have it.

“Like
decades
,” he adds, and it's funny how the statement curls into a question. I lean my head against the glass and look up. The sky is a bowl of sludgy gray. It's going to rain later. I wonder if I'll be able to see it from my cell or if
the windows will be too small.

Or if there will be any windows.

Either Baker gets the hint or gets bored because we drive the rest of the way in silence. It takes us over an hour, but it feels like only minutes, and when he drives the van behind the chain link and razor wire fencing, I have to swallow and swallow to keep my stomach where it belongs.

Baker parks and climbs down from the driver's seat, wanders around to unlock my door. “Welcome to your happily ever after”—he checks his clipboard again, grins at me—“or however long you make it.”

He's trying to scare me and I grin. That was the wrong thing to say to me or, maybe, the perfect thing to say to me. All this time I never believed in happy endings. Life wasn't a fairy tale. Love won't save you. No one gets out alive.

And it's true.

Or, at least, it's partially true because love
can
save you. That's the crazy thing about it. All those sappy stories and Top 40 songs, they're so cheesy and stupid and
right
. Love is everything the fairy tales say it is.

Maybe that's why I was so sarcastic with the whole thing—because I didn't want to fight for love, for what I really wanted. I didn't want to be brave. I wanted to run. I wanted to hide. I wasn't willing to risk anything for it.

But the problem was, by not risking anything, I cost myself even more. Griff would probably call this a Big Moment, right? I am now the heroine of my very own romantic comedy. Although considering I'm about
to walk into prison, romantic tragedy is probably more appropriate.

But one day I'll walk out, and when I do, I'll have my second chance.

I just have to get through this first.

Baker stands with me while we wait for my transfer. Eventually, another uniformed woman comes to get me.

“Tate?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“You'll be debriefed first,” the guard says. “After that, we'll bring you to intake.”

Nausea rolls through me. Intake. That's a mild word for getting my prison-orange jumpsuit and a cavity search.

“Great!” I say and make sure to smile. The guard rolls her eyes and motions for me to follow her. We make a right down a fluorescent-lit hallway, and when we reach the first door on our left, she opens it.

“Sit down. Don't move.”

There's a table with two chairs on one side, one chair on the other. I take the single chair and fold my hands on top of the table. It feels too formal so I put them in my lap. That doesn't feel right either, but I leave them there and wait.

It's only a few moments before the door swings open and a woman walks in. Our eyes meet and my heart double thumps.

“I know you . . . you were the social worker at Looking Glass—the lady taking notes during therapy,” I say.

“I'm Special Agent Bennett,” she says and looks into
the hall, waiting. “And this is Special Agent—”

“Hart,” I say. He stands in the doorway, both hands braced on the frame. He's still perfectly dressed, perfectly polished, and I don't think that hair would move if I blasted it.

“Actually, the name's Larkin,” he says. “But if it makes you feel better we can stick to Hart.”

Hart—Larkin,
whatever
—shuts the door and takes the closest chair. His feet slide so far under the table he accidentally kicks my feet. Special Agent Bennett stays standing, arms crossed. Her attention is trained on Hart and his attention is trained on me.

“Hello, Wick,” he says. It could be that day in Bren's living room instead of today, like nothing's changed except for me. “You've been busy.”

I nod. “You too.”

He smiles and I lean back. I'm ready to get this over with. I've about had all the fun I can stand with these people.

“I always knew you were special, Wick.”

“You know that sounds creepy, right?”

“Sorry. It's true though.”

“What do you want?”

Hart studies his hands. “I wanted you to know the truth. I've been in deep undercover for years now. Those men watching you from the building opposite Looking Glass? They were mine.” He pauses, waiting for some response from me, and when I don't say a word, Hart continues, “I
knew your mom. I knew what she went through. Losing her . . . they told me I couldn't save everyone and I know that, but I still carry the guilt—probably will for the rest of my life.”

For something offered up so freely, the words are scraped and raw like Hart excavated them from some part of his soul no one was ever supposed to see. I want to look away and I can't.

“I'm really sorry for your loss,” he says softly. “I wish your mom's life had a different ending.”

“Me too.” I take a deep breath against the sudden ache in my chest. “And Bay? What about him? What I did . . .”

“You had no idea what was going on, Wick.”

“Doesn't make it right.”

“No.” Hart's sigh is long and heavy. “I had no idea what she had you doing until it was too late. I'm so sorry, Wick. I never would have let that happen if I'd known.”

There is the softest cough from Special Agent Bennett and Hart nods at her, squaring his shoulders.

“I started my undercover work with your dad,” Hart says. “I won't say I know what you went through, but I think I have a pretty good understanding. My team and I have watched for a long time.”

“Did you make that deal with Joe? Were you the ones behind his plea bargain?”

Hart nods. “I was trying to bring all of Looking Glass down.”

“Great job of that.”

He grimaces and there's something of the old Hart that peeks through. He's irritated I beat him to my dad and I like that; means bringing down Michael and Norcut and Looking Glass was personal.

“Fair point,” Hart says finally. “Thanks to you, Dr. Norcut will go away for a long time—as will her son if we can ever find him.”

You won't
.

“So how long have you been watching me?” I ask.

“A while now.” Bennett steps away from the wall. “Those viruses at Looking Glass were from me. We weren't sure if you were working for your dad or if you were really on board with Dr. Norcut. Larkin and I were fishing, thought you would be an ideal inside source for us if we could bring you to our side, but things . . . got out of hand before we could loop you in.”

“‘Got out of hand'? That's what you're calling it?”

“I'm sorry,” Hart says.

I take a deep, deep breath and let it escape slowly. “Aren't you supposed to be debriefing me?”

“We are debriefing. Ten years here”—he shakes his head—“is a waste for someone like you.”

I wait, watching Hart, watching Bennett. She's looking straight at me now. She's holding her breath.

“Oh yeah?” I ask at last.

“Yeah.” Hart leans forward, and this time, I don't lean
back. “I'm sorry I couldn't tell you the truth about who I was and what I was doing. I wanted to. I think you have a lot to offer the world.”

I stare at him, searching for the bullshit. But there isn't any, and I should be sarcastic because that line is
so
cheesy, but I meet Hart's eyes and nod. “I know I have a lot to offer.”

“Good. Because I want to give you a job, Wick.”

“I've heard that line before.”

“Yeah. True. But this time it's your choice and it's the real deal: paycheck, W-2, taxes. It's a desk job, but you'll work with us. . . . So what do you say? You want to help the government catch some bad guys?”