Remember Me Page 2

  I’m going to screw up everything.

  “I don’t want to be here,” I whisper.

  “Yes, you do.” Next to me, Lauren readjusts her cat ears. I’ll be honest, it was kind of awesome running into her. My best friend’s family is well-connected, and she often attends parties like these with her mother. I pretty much expected to see them, but part of me still went boneless with relief.

  It’s probably the same part of me that’s responsible for my stupid plan of attack. Or it’s the part of me that’s gone soft. I used to operate alone. I still operate alone and yet . . .

  “You being here makes Bren happy—and Bren could use a little happy.” Lauren tugs her fingers through her almost black hair, trying to smooth it. Pointless really. The wind is picking up and no amount of Restoration Hardware heaters or outdoor fireplaces are going to hide the fact that it’s freaking February.

  “What if someone asks her about Todd?”

  “They wouldn’t dare.” She says it with such a forceful smile I almost believe her.

  Until that smile vanishes.

  “Oh shit,” Lauren hisses, and I follow her gaze to Mrs. Cross, her mother. She’s talking to some guy in a Phantom of the Opera costume, her face absolutely white, her mouth fish-gulping for air. She’s on the tip of another panic attack, and just like that, my best friend’s melting through the crowd.

  I start to follow, stop. Lauren won’t want me there. Neither of them will. Lauren and I aren’t friends because we like the same ice cream (even though we do) or because we like boy bands (even though we both don’t). I think we’re friends because our mothers are damaged. My biological mom committed suicide. Her adoptive mom is imploding.

  I hate it for Lauren, but it’s an unexpected windfall. Bren thinks I’m with Lauren. Lauren’s consumed with her mom.

  Leaves me open to do what I need to do.

  I turn toward the house and, like I’m living in some cheesy movie, spot Jason near the bar. He sees me and gives me a tiny nod, dark hair flipping into his eyes. I’m not sure if it’s in acknowledgment of how we used to work together or who my father is. Either way, I suddenly know how I’m going to finish this.

  I elbow my way to the bar and order a Red Bull, play with my straw and glass until the bartender moves down to get drink orders from a Captain Kirk. There are two empty stools between Jason and me, but I can still feel his gaze crawl up my skin like spiders.

  “Can you believe this?” he asks. The question’s so quiet I nearly miss it.

  “No,” I say, and immediately I wish I hadn’t. Agreeing makes me more like him and less like the girl I’m going to be.

  I keep my eyes on the people around us, fidgeting with my zombie Alice in Wonderland costume. Even if I weren’t meeting with Jason, this kind of party makes me anxious. It’s where I’m supposed to belong now, but I’ve been living this life with Bren for almost a year and it still feels borrowed.

  In the corner of my vision, Jason shifts. He’s in a fifties-style suit, dressed up as a Mad Man, I guess, and as he leans closer, the jacket falls open. “So why’re you here?” he asks.

  “To see you.” I push one hand into my skirt pocket, feel the Rohypnol roll like pebbles. “I have a message. From him.”

  The dealer goes so still I know I’ve got him.

  “From your dad?” he asks.

  For the first time, I dare to fully look at him, raise both my eyebrows in a Who else do you think, idiot? way.

  Jason smacks one hand against his suit jacket, exposing an enormous gold watch before he fishes out his iPhone. The screen is illuminated with an incoming call. “Give me one second,” he says. “I’m working.”

  “He’ll be glad to know.” Jason’s gaze swings to mine, holds, and I can see nothing but want in his eyes: How he wants my father’s approval. How he wants to belong.

  How I can use that against him.

  So while Jason paces with whoever’s on the cell, I put two roofies in his beer. At least, I think it’s his beer. I’m almost positive.

  After a few minutes, Jason circles back to me, grinning. “Cheers,” he says, and clinks his beer—I was right—against my Red Bull. He drinks the Heineken in two long pulls. “What does he need?”

  “Wait for my friends to leave,” I say, and Jason nods.

  We watch everyone but each other, and twenty minutes later, I tell him to follow me.

  Since most of the party is near the rear of the house, I push toward the front. The number of guests starts to thin and I turn down an empty hallway, skin-crawlingly aware that Jason’s only a few strides behind me. I’m trying to look like I’m searching for a bathroom. He’s trying to look like . . . I have no idea. I refuse to turn around. With every step, I’m chickening out.

  “Where you goin’, Wick?” He’s closer than I thought and sweat pops up between my shoulder blades.

  “Somewhere quiet.” I turn to face him. “My dad said this was really important. We don’t want any interruptions.”

  “Good idea.”

  You won’t think so when we get there—if we get there. His skin is shimmery with sweat and his eyes are dilated. The roofies have hit him hard. I have two minutes. Maybe.

  I shoulder open the nearest door, spilling both of us into a dimly lit home office. Jason plows into me from behind, closing a fist around my arm. “What did Michael say?”

  I shudder. Another name I hate. My father’s.

  “What’s he want?” Jason asks, giving me a shake.

  I shove him. Hard. Thank God for the Rohypnol because he spins, staggers, and drops onto a leather sofa wedged under a picture window. I close the door behind us, slump against the wood. My costume is twisted from where he grabbed me and my dark wig is crooked. I pull it off, shake my hair loose.

  Jason’s face screws tight. “What the hell is your problem?”

  “You.”

  He stabs both hands into the couch, tries to stand, and falls. Horror crawls across his face. “Did you—”

  “Give you a little trip? Yeah,” I say, knowing he’ll never remember it. Like roofie victims before him, his memory of tonight is going to smear into an ugly blank. I come a little closer. “Do you even care what happens to them?”

  Them. The girls. They don’t have names. Ends up not mattering though because Jason doesn’t pretend to be confused.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I do.” In fact, I like telling myself that’s the real reason I’m here. It’s easier than seeing Bren or Lily or Griff behind my eyes. Jason shifts, tries to move, and can’t. It’s like someone poured him into place. I’ve seen the look before. I have less than one minute.

  “Bitch,” he whispers.

  Yes. Probably. I wait, counting down the seconds and watching something that might be fear shadowbox behind the dealer’s eyes.

  “Looks like Lell,” Jason mutters, tilts sideways, and passes out.

  The hell? On the other side of the office door, people walk by. Someone laughs and I stiffen. Now is so not the time to hesitate. We could be interrupted at any minute, but I can’t bring myself to touch him. He smells like the peppermints he’s always chewing and it makes my throat funnel shut.

  Suddenly, I’m not in Judge Bay’s home office. I’m back in my bedroom, smelling peppermints on Todd’s breath and watching him slice me open. I need to move and I can’t move.

  Another laugh. Closer this time.

  Get going.

  I drop to my knees, ramming one hand into Jason’s pocket. First the left then the right. There it is. I pull out his iPhone and enter the security code I watched him use earlier. The home screen appears and I load the browser, start downloading a GPS tracking app.

  Another moment and I’m done. Jason will never know it’s there and Carson can watch him whenever he likes. Though it’s weird that he even wants to. I can’t help wondering what Carson’s angle is. Jason’s mid-level. Carson’s usually interested in bigger fish.

  Best not to think about it. I use my dre
ss to wipe any prints from the iPhone and slide it into Jason’s jeans pocket. Pushing both hands into the floor, I start to stand and something scrapes the window. I freeze as a shadow glides over us.

  Shit.

  I drop to the floor, scrambling backward on my hands and knees. I hit the desk and, shoulders rammed against its side, I watch the window. The shadow reappears. There’s another scrape, a rattle as the window shakes.

  He’s trying to get in.

  I cover my mouth with both hands, chewing down a scream.

  He’ll catch me. He’ll—he’s stopping.

  The guy leans close to the glass, staring down at Jason. His head twitches and looks straight ahead. Right at me.

  He can’t see you. He can’t see you. He can only see Jason because he’s so close.

  The shadow pulls back, looks right, then left. If he goes for help, I’m screwed.

  He goes right, disappearing into the dark, and my breath escapes in a rush.

  Gotta get out of here. I kick my feet under me, keeping the window in sight as I move toward the door, grabbing my wig from the floor as I pass. My hands bump into the handle and I hesitate. The outside hallway is lit. If he’s still out there, he’ll see me when I open the door.

  I swallow hard and press down on the handle, cracking the door open just enough to slip into the deserted hallway. For a moment, there’s no one and I can breathe again.

  Then I hear voices.

  I pivot to my right and power walk into the living room and the crowd. The costume party is full swing now. A few people look my way, stare. Do they know? I can’t tell and cold sweat rolls underneath my costume. I take one step forward. Two. No one starts screaming. No one asks where Jason is. More eyes slide in my direction . . . and stick.

  Maybe it’s because I’m dressed as a blood-spattered Alice in Wonderland—that has to be a first—but it’s probably not. Some people see me as the girl who brought down her foster dad, the child molester. Others see me as the girl who asked for it.

  Yet another reason not to stick around. I push through the other guests, heading for the backyard, where I left Bren and two investment bankers. Fortunately, she’s still there and the suits are still enthralled with her. Thank God. I’ve never been more grateful for my adoptive mom’s ability to go on and on about diversification strategies.

  “There you are.” Bren wraps one arm around my shoulders, gives me a tight squeeze. I’m so glad to see her I hug her even harder, have to remind myself to let go before I completely crush her fluffy pink Glinda the Good Witch costume.

  “I thought you were going to hang around with Lauren,” she says, adjusting the collar of my dress so it’s smooth.

  “They had to leave.”

  “Oh.” The skin between Bren’s eyes creases. “Did you have a hard time finding me?”

  I almost burst out laughing. I want to tell Bren no, not at all, because I’m not ten and I can get around, but if I don’t want to be Carson’s pet, my alternative is cute-and-cuddly teenage girl.

  Only I don’t like that option either.

  “I had a hard time finding the bathroom,” I whisper, and everyone smiles indulgently.

  Gag. Me. Now.

  Bren’s attention drifts to my hair, noticing the absent wig. She starts to speak and I cut her off, holding up the dark wig like it’s a dead animal. “Sorry. It was itchy.”

  The guy to my right glances at his phone. “It’s almost time for Bay’s speech. Shall we go up?”

  Shall we? Now I really want to gag. Until I realize Bren is kind of digging his attention. Her smile is white and shiny and . . . unfamiliar. I can’t remember the last time she looked so happy.

  “That would be perfect,” Bren says, gathering a handful of pink tulle skirt. “And if you do decide you want a proposal, here’s my card.” She passes him a cream-colored business card and the guy pockets it, eyes still pinned to her like she’s made of magic.

  He doesn’t have a clue. I don’t mean that to sound like my adoptive mom isn’t amazing. She is. But ever since Todd’s arrest, most of the town treats her like total crap. They think she should have known what he was doing and stopped it. Thing is, Bren agrees and she’s hated herself ever since.

  And while I don’t regret taking down Todd, I do regret the blowback on Bren. Maybe if I had handled things differently . . . better . . . she wouldn’t be suffering. I saved my sister. I saved myself.

  I ruined Bren’s life.

  Exposing Todd was right . . . and yet.

  “Are you friends with the family?” Guy #2 asks.

  A brief pause. Bren always hesitates before she lies. “We’ve known them for a long time,” she says.

  But the only reason we even received an invitation to the party is because Bren donated money to Bay’s previous political campaigns. They can’t afford to snub her even though we can’t really afford to contribute anymore. Bren’s consulting company is struggling because people around here don’t want to do business with her. These guys must be out-of-towners and Bren saw the opportunity. She’ll do whatever she has to do to take care of Lily and me.

  It’s one of the biggest traits we share and I hope she never finds out.

  Bren hooks her arm through mine, tucking me close like I’m everything she ever wanted, like we belong together.

  It feels so perfect I smile right through the guilt gumming up my chest.

  The four of us follow the other guests up to the main house. Inside, most of the furniture has been cleared away and staff in matching burgundy polo shirts is waving us through, motioning for everyone to huddle closer.

  I tilt my head toward Bren. “What’s going on?”

  “Bay’s probably going to announce his intent to run for election again next year. It shouldn’t take too long and then we can go home. I only have Lily’s babysitter until midnight.”

  Ahead of us, the judge stands up—probably on some table or chair because he’s suddenly two or three feet higher than everyone.

  “I want to thank all of you for coming,” Bay says, smiling and adjusting his dark suit jacket. I guess he couldn’t be bothered with a costume. “I’m sure most of you know what I’m about to say so I’ll spare you any more theatrics and, instead, get to what y’all been waiting for—”

  I don’t know. I’d say “all of us” is a bit of a stretch, but, judging from everyone’s rapt attention, I’m in the minority. Bay gestures to the curtain behind him and it starts to slide open . . . and jerks to stop as someone screams.

  Two women crash into me and I stumble. Bren’s pulling me away, but I can’t stop staring. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  It’s a dead woman.

  She’s dressed like an angel and propped into a sitting position underneath Bay’s enormous grinning photograph. More people plow into us, running for the door, and Bren tugs me close, using one palm to shield my face from the sight.

  Too late. I close my eyes and the curl of body blooms behind them. The dead girl’s dress is torn halfway off, her chest is bloody, but you can still read the words someone carved:

  REMEMBER ME.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  What’s worse than going to a costume party? Sitting in a cop car.

  Bren was talking to some officer when Carson spotted us and peeled me away to get my “statement.” Now I’m stuck here, slumped low in the passenger seat and picking at the upholstery while Carson yells at two EMTs who were called to the scene. There are a lot of hand gestures going on. The detective is not a happy camper.

  That makes two of us, I guess.

  Carson spins around and stalks toward me, yanking open the car door with enough force to make the hinges creak.

  “You had a job to do.”

  “And I did it. Can I go now?”

  “No, you can’t fucking ‘go.’” Carson chews his toothpick harder, swinging it
from side to side. He’s super pissed and I don’t care.

  Well, I do care, just not in the way I should. I’m not gunning for Employee of the Year—more like Hacker Who Stays Out of Jail. I smile at Carson. He glares at me.

  Across the lawn, Ian Bay, the judge’s son, catches sight of us and pauses, the red and blue lights from the emergency vehicles twirling over his dark hair. He holds my gaze for so long I look down, pretend I’m hyperventilating. Nothing to see here. Just a scared teenage girl giving her account of the situation to the police. I do not need someone from my school wondering why Carson and I are having our second heart-to-heart in less than eight hours.

  Carson flicks his toothpick onto the ground. “Who’s your friend, Wicket?”

  I lick my lips, stalling. I don’t know why, but I have always hated the way he says my name. “No idea what you’re talking about. He’s not my friend.”

  When I look up again, Ian is gone, replaced by a set of medics pushing a gurney across the grass, wheeling an unconscious Jason Baines toward the street. He isn’t moving and guilt pries into all my corners.

  “So you can take direction.” Carson’s laugh is a dry bark. “I’m assuming you took my advice?”

  I turn my face away. “I hope he wakes up.”

  “Like it would be a tragedy if he didn’t.” The detective’s tone is equal parts sarcasm and camaraderie—like we’re buddies in on the same joke.

  We’re so not. If he says this stuff about Jason, what does he say about me?

  An officer appears at Carson’s elbow. “There are footsteps leading around the side of the house, sir. They head east along the flower beds.”

  My hands go cold. East goes directly past the office, past me when I was with Jason.

  “Could be one of the guests,” Carson says.

  “Could be.” The other cop glances down at me, hesitant to say more. “However, there’s other evidence that suggests it’s the killer, sir.”

  I tuck both hands under my thighs and ignore how my armpits have turned swampy.

  “Do not move,” Carson says, peeling away to follow the officer.