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  I’d sound like a lunatic if I say that, so instead I add, “Please stop blaming yourself.”

  “I can’t . . . you should probably know . . . child services is making a few inquiries.”

  My heart double-thumps. “Why? The adoption papers are final.”

  “Apparently, there have been some complaints? I don’t know what they call it. Accusations? There’s a social worker who may want to talk to you about my . . . skills.”

  Not if I get to Carson first. I know what this is. It’s a reminder, a warning of what’s to come. He’s screwing with her to remind me to hurry it along. I will fix it for her. I will make it go away. I will make all of it go away.

  I want to tell her and I can’t.

  We stare at each other until Bren turns to the oven—either because she can’t look at me anymore or she just wants the conversation to end—and watches her soufflé through the window. “You remember Lily has a cheer competition this weekend, right?”

  No, actually, and I’m pretty sure that makes me a rotten sister, but I’m grateful for the conversation turn. Heartfelt confessions always make me feel like a fat man’s sitting on my chest.

  “Yeah, ’course I remember. It’s downtown or something.”

  “Birmingham.” Bren straightens, checks the cookbook. “Would you like to come?”

  Under different circumstances, yeah I would. Lily loves cheering and she loves it even more when I come. I just can’t afford the time away, not if Carson’s going to play these games.

  “I wish. I have a history project that’s really kicking my butt.” I pause, knowing I’m pushing it with what I’m about to ask. “Do you mind if I stay home?”

  “We’ll be gone for the whole weekend.” Bren’s statement curls up at the end, fitting in Are you sure? and She’ll have every light in the house on behind the words. I should probably be offended. All I can think about is the windfall. Two whole days. It might be all it would take. A smile slings across my lips.

  “School’s important.” Bren touches her fingers to the cookbook like she’s reading the text, but her eyes never move. “You can come to the next meet. . . . Are you sure you’ll be okay alone?”

  She picks her way so carefully through the question, it sounds practiced, like this was expected. Maybe it was. After Todd’s attack, all Bren wanted to do was keep Lily and me close to her. If she had her way, we would both be homeschooled now and travel everywhere with her. She’s trying really hard to give us space.

  I’m manipulating that.

  I scrape my fingernail against the counter, not meeting Bren’s eyes. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I have a few school things that I can take care of while you’re gone.”

  “You sure?”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  I slide off the bar stool, stop dead. “Bren? How did that work? When you paid Bay to push through our adoption papers?”

  Now she’s not looking at me. “I worked with his assistant, the girl who died.”

  There’s something to that, a taste behind my teeth I can’t name . . . yet.

  “You know you can’t say anything about that, right, Wick?”

  “I won’t. I would never.” I hesitate. We have nothing left to talk about, but I feel bad leaving her.

  “Are you going to be okay?” I ask.

  Bren goes so still I know she’s about to lie. “Of course, sweetheart, everything’s fine.”

  And we’re both so good at this, I almost believe her. I go upstairs, turn on all my lights, text Carson to call off his dogs, watch my window and my air vent.

  Until midnight, when Griff climbs in from the dark.

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  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  “What are you doing?” I whisper. I can’t stop my smile though, and when Griff sees it, he grins.

  “Your light was on and I wanted to see you.”

  It makes everything in me do a stupid wiggle dance. “See me for what?”

  “Midnight picnic.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” We’re kneeling on the floor beneath my window, knees almost touching, and Griff nudges closer, mouth brushing mine. It makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle to life.

  “Sneak out with me,” he whispers against my lips.

  I nearly laugh. Hells no. There’s no moon tonight and two of the streetlamps are dead. Problem is, if I say no, I’d have to explain. How do you say, I’m afraid of the dark, without sounding like a two-year-old?

  “I dare you.” His words curl through me, hit bottom.

  “You’re on.”

  Griff blinks, smiles. I’ve surprised him. I’ve surprised myself.

  I shove my feet into sneakers and go to my bedroom door, listen for Bren. I’m pretty sure she went to bed ages ago.

  “We’ll be back in an hour,” Griff says. “She’ll never know.”

  I follow him to the window; take a steadying breath as I look down into the shadows.

  “You want me to go first?” he asks. “Catch you as you come down?”

  I’m not sure which is worse: Griff thinking I’m afraid of falling or Griff knowing I’m afraid of the dark. I roll my eyes. “What? You think this is the first time I’ve snuck out of my bedroom?”

  He grins and I kick my legs over the sill, digging my sneakers into the nearest tree limb. It holds under my weight and I scramble to the ground in only a few seconds. Maybe not the most graceful thing I’ve ever done—

  Griff drops down next to me, chest skimming my arm, heat rolling off him. If I lean forward, we could kiss.

  “Nicely done, Wicked.”

  My mouth goes dry. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Ends up, not very far. Griff takes me to the kiddie park near my house, where we sit on the swings and eat cold Chick-fil-A sandwiches. I twirl my swing in circles, noticing how the shadows suddenly don’t feel so smothering. Maybe it’s Griff. Maybe he chases away my dark.

  “What brought this on?” I ask.

  A pause. “This is the kind of stuff I always wanted to do with you.”

  I dip my eyes away from his, end up looking at the curve of skin above his collar. It makes my mouth go hot.

  “What do you want, Wick?”

  You. But I don’t say it because that’s not what he means. Griff is talking about school and college and life after college. He’s talking about all the things he has figured out.

  And I don’t have a clue about. I can’t think that far ahead. I wasn’t supposed to have this life. Tates don’t go to college. They go to jail.

  Or the morgue.

  I shrug, look away. “What do you want?”

  “To keep drawing. To afford painting. SCAD. For food stamps to be part of someone else’s life. For . . . it isn’t hard, Wicked. Tell me what you want.”

  “I don’t know what I want yet,” I say at last, pressing one hand against my forehead. I can feel a migraine coming on. Stress. The space behind my eyes is beginning to thump. “I’m just taking things as they come. It’s hard to plan anything with Carson in the middle of it.”

  “Then let’s take him out of it.” Griff hesitates. “What if we tell my cousin? He could help us bring a case against Carson.”

  “And take me down in the process. Worse, it’ll take Bren down.” Saying it aloud makes guilt squeeze me breathless. “My sister will go down.”

  I’ll be alone. It’s brief and brilliant, blazing across my brain in a language I didn’t think I understood. When did I become that girl?

  “They won’t go down,” Griff says, edging closer even as I’m straining away. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll weather it together.”

  We. Not them. I shake my head, can’t stop.

  Griff makes a strained noise. “Bren and Lily will be fine. They wouldn’t want this for you.”

  “I don’t want any of this for them. It’s m
y burden, Griff.” What I really mean is it’s my fault. I want to fix this for them. I also want to fix it for me.

  “I’ll minimize the damage, Wicked. I did it once.”

  He did. Carson tried to catch me helping my father and I would have gone to jail for sure—if I’d been caught. Griff erased all my digital fingerprints from the files I gave my dad and his right-hand man, Joe Bender. They went to jail. Griff saved me.

  No guarantees I’ll be that lucky the second time. “There’s more at stake here than just me, Griff.”

  Besides, even if I could take Carson down . . . I want to finish Bay first. Two for the price of one.

  “Think about it,” Griff says. “It’s your decision.”

  Funny how three little words can make me feel so warm. So do these words: I will save myself. I will protect Bren, and by protecting Bren I’ll protect Lily.

  I look at Griff and smile. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

  Now he’s smiling. “I have a few ideas.”

  For the rest of the week, I spend my afternoons watching Bay’s house from the shelter of the woods. In some ways, this is stupid easy because my hiding spot is well hidden and, more importantly, no one at home misses me. Griff is finishing an art project for his college application portfolio. Bren and Lily have their own things going on in preparation for the cheer meet. Ian . . . well, Ian is still bugging me about our project, but I’ve managed to put him off. Everything’s working.

  Sort of.

  Because I haven’t made any headway. For days, all I get to watch is the guards and the Bays go about their business—come home from school, eat dinner, walk around the backyard; it’s every bit as thrilling as it sounds.

  Then, on Sunday, I get a break. Just after lunch, one of the guards reaches into his pocket, pulling out a cell phone. He messes with it for a moment, waits, and then shows it to his partner. They both stare at the handset. The guard on the left shrugs and turns for the car. I sit up straight. What the hell?

  The second guard fiddles with his phone—I think he’s texting—then follows the first. They climb into the sedan and drive away. This makes zero sense. The Bays have been gone all weekend. I even saw the emails between Bay and the security firm. The guards are supposed to be here until the family gets home sometime tonight.

  I shift, pressing one shoulder against a tree. This is too good to be true.

  Which makes me suspicious.

  And also eager. Because if I skirted the woods, I could run around to the rear of the house and use the rose trellis to climb onto the back porch roof. According to the last email I saw between Barton & Moore and Bay, the second-floor windows still don’t have functioning alarms. If I jimmied the lock, I could sneak into the house and install the sniffer without interruption. It would be a round of brilliant good luck.

  Then again, who’s to say someone wouldn’t come home and catch me? The idea turns my blood slushy. That won’t work.

  Screw it. I’m going. I pull my hoodie tight over my hair. With one eye on the house across the street, I follow the tree line around until I’m in the Bays’ backyard. Still half in the trees, I wait, watch. There’s nothing. The house is completely still. If I’m going to do this, I better do it now.

  Breaking from the trees, I hustle across the lawn, heading for the rose trellis. I thread my hands through the prickly vines and test the wooden frame’s sturdiness. I think it will hold. I hope it will hold.

  Hoisting one foot up, I jam it into the space where wooden slats are nailed together and start climbing. Hand over hand. I make it to the roof’s edge in less than fifteen seconds and heave myself up, rolling to my feet, ready to pry the window open.

  Except I don’t need to. The window is cracked open.

  Another squeeze of unease. This is too easy. Something’s up. I wait another beat, listening for any sounds coming from inside or out. There’s nothing. So why do I feel watched?

  I stare hard into the trees behind me, look carefully to either side. Nothing. I’m alone and paranoid.

  Screw it. I’m going. I shove the window farther open and slide through, hitting the carpet with both feet. Again, there’s nothing. The house is completely quiet.

  Get in. Get out. Get in. Get out. I cross the room and crack the door. The hallway is empty. I edge forward, glance around. The Bays’ upstairs is open to the downstairs, and from my position in the upper hallway, I can easily see the floor below. Kitchen looks clear . . . living room directly below looks clear . . . I ease to the handrail, craning over the side to peer down at the keypad near the front door. No flashing lights.

  It’s not on. I dash for the stairs, feet soundless on the thick carpeting. Down the first five, turn on the landing, down another five. Wait.

  Still nothing.

  I take a deep breath and hustle across the main living room. Thanks to the party, I know exactly which door off the hallway to pick. The handle turns noiselessly in my hand and I’m in.

  Bay’s study. It smells like orange cleanser and polished wood. The curtains are drawn and it takes me a moment to locate his BlackBerry charging station in the shadows. It’s tucked to one side of the cherrywood desk, power cord neatly fed through a small hole in the desk’s shiny top. Turning the charger upside down, I pop off the cradle’s bottom, then by pushing the charging pins out, I am able to slide the sniffer in, attaching the charging pins to the back of it. Now, whenever Bay puts his phone on charge, the phone will connect with the sniffer and I’ll get a direct feed of his texts, emails, and pictures.

  Resecuring the bottom, I replace the charging station, wipe my fingerprints, and glance around the room. It’s really tempting to do a little digging. Really tempting.

  Until I hear a thump.

  It’s so muffled I almost miss it, but my heart rides right into my throat, and for a terrible moment, I’m frozen.

  Get out. Get. Out. I fling myself at the study door, peer outside. Nothing. I’m just spazzing. There’s a good reason I stay on the other side of the computer. I can’t handle this stress. Time to blow this Popsicle stand.

  I’m easing my way up the last steps when I hear it again. Another thump.

  Slowly, I turn, see a shadow slide past one of the open doors farther down the hallway.

  I am not alone.

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  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  I spin around, running for the window and trying to be quiet. I’m just not quiet enough. It’s not that I hear someone behind me.

  I just somehow know he’s there.

  My heart is behind my teeth now, but I have just enough brain cells left to ease the window down with sleeve-covered hands and run for it.

  Or, rather, slide for it.

  I push my way down the roof until my feet are dangling off the side, twist, and grab onto the rose trellis. Then I scramble. My feet hit the ground and, just as they do, I hear the window above scrape open.

  I freeze, shoulders pressed against the siding. Whoever was down the hallway is now above me on the roof. I can’t run the way I came because it would take me directly across the yard. I’d be seen. Can’t stay here though. I can’t—my eyes latch onto the woods. That’ll work. I’ll run for the woods. If I go around the side of the house, I can reach the trees. They’ll provide coverage.

  Hopefully.

  I take off, coming around the side of the house at a dead run. Behind me, the rose trellis shakes and something heavy hits the ground.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. I speed up, running past the end of the Bays’ house and straight into the surrounding woods. I keep a good pace as I push farther in. The underbrush isn’t very thick and the ground is soft from the recent rains, muffling the slap of my Chucks. I veer to the right—need to get closer to the road—and duck behind a fallen tree, curling myself into a tight ball. I wait, listening. At first, it’s quiet.

  Then come the footsteps.


  They’re steady, but farther off, like the person went straight when I went right. I press myself into the dirt, willing my breathing to slow. No good. Fear is mixing with exertion and I can’t get enough air. I cover my mouth with both hands and the movement turns my head just enough to see the wedge of space between the standing trunk and the fallen tree.

  There’s someone coming through the afternoon-darkened trees.

  It’s a man. He’s moving quickly, head casting from side to side like he’s looking for something he lost.

  He’s looking for me. I press closer to the ground even as he draws farther away. I can’t make out his face. He’s tallish . . . with baggy clothes . . . and . . . crap. The shadows make it almost impossible to gauge anything definite.

  Who is he?

  Not Ian. Not the judge. Who else would want to be in that house besides me?

  My skin goes cold. The killer.

  No. Why would he come back? I flatten myself into the dirt, waiting. He walks left, then right, then disappears behind a thicket of trees. I fling myself upright and run for it. The road shouldn’t be much farther. If I can get that far, I can reach my car. I’m out of here.

  And then the ground gives way.

  I pitch forward, sliding, sliding. My shoulder crams into one rock and my head glances off another. Light flashes behind my eyes as the force spins me around. I end up half-buried under a mound of dirt.

  Get up. Get up. I thrash, spilling more dirt. Somehow I’ve fallen into a ditch and the ground is crumbly from all the rain. I can’t get traction until—finally—my feet hit rock and I push myself up, wiping dirt from my eyes. My fingers come away wet, bloody.

  This isn’t a ditch. It’s a giant sinkhole. I’m at least eight feet below the surface, my legs partially buried in the soft, dark dirt. The ground behind me feels firmer and, somehow, the ground above me is intact, curving over me like a roof.

  I wiggle. Something pokes me in the side. Shit. I reach around, knowing even before I touch my cell that I’ve crushed it. The screen is deeply cracked and it won’t power on. So much for calling for help. I’ll need to dig myself out, but there’s too much dirt on my legs. I can’t move, and this time, it isn’t footsteps that alert me he’s close. It’s the way the birds go silent.