Remember Me Page 9

  A shadow casts across the hole. He’s standing above me, looking down, and I go utterly still. I can’t tell if he can see me. My lower body is completely buried. The rest of me?

  I press into the dirt wall. Maybe with the overhang, I’m okay. Unless he comes around the other side of the hole; then I know he’ll spot me. I won’t be able to get away.

  I wait. He waits. Small clumps of dirt drop from above, and for a single, hysterical second, I think he’s going to fall through the overhang and land on top of me. Then his fingers close around the edge of the hole. They curl into the dirt so I can see the pink tips and I know he’s leaning in.

  He’s coming in for a closer look. I bite my tongue, taste mud. More dirt clumps fall and then his fingers pull away. He’s moving. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  He’s pacing.

  Then he stops. Something cracks and I jerk. There’s a rustling, dragging sound. Ragged shadows arc across the hole’s opening and a large branch lands across my buried legs.

  Panic surges through me. What the hell is he doing?

  He begins to whistle. Another crack. Another branch.

  Why’s he covering up the hole?

  Crack. Branch.

  Holy shit, he’s going to bury me alive.

  I swallow, dirt coating my tongue. Get a grip. He’s not burying you. He’s covering you. He’s hiding the hole. Why? Because I’m in it? Can’t be. He doesn’t realize I’m here.

  The whistling—light, tuneless—recedes again and I start working my legs up and down, pushing at the dirt with my sneakers. I can’t let myself get pinned like this. Maybe if I ball up, I’ll have a better chance of getting my feet under me and shoving my way out.

  I wiggle harder. My left knee pops loose, punches through the mud. I draw it close and keep working at my right leg. It’s so far under all that dirt. I don’t know how—

  Another branch lands on me and I stifle a whimper.

  Only maybe I didn’t stifle it enough because he pauses. The long shadow slides across the hole again and I press one hand against my mouth, convinced he can hear my breathing. That’s when I notice how the mud’s been smeared.

  By dragging my leg to me, I left a long line in the dirt. Did he notice?

  Waiting. Waiting.

  He moves. The shadows retreat and I heave my right leg out, pull my knees under my chin, and tuck myself into a ball.

  Another branch. He starts pacing again . . . stops . . . retreats.

  Leaves.

  His footsteps recede and I exhale hard, waiting for him to be far enough away that he won’t hear me crashing through the tree branches. A minute passes. Another. The sun’s lowering in the west, inching me into darkness. I should wait—

  Screw it.

  I kick my feet under me and start pushing. The limbs snag on everything—my hair, my clothes. I shield my eyes with a forearm and the branches dig into my skin until there’s blood.

  I keep pushing—even more freaked now than I was in the house. Why would he cover a hole? Surely if he knew I was in there . . . I swallow hard. I don’t want to think about that. But I know something’s wrong.

  And, somehow, I know he’ll be back.

  I balance both feet on the lowest branch and push up. A branch claws my stomach, ripping my T-shirt, and I manage to scramble a little higher. The ragged ledge is almost within reach. If only my freaking phone worked!

  I brace my feet on a branch’s bend. One foot slips and I flail, clawing both hands into the soft earthen walls. My fingers catch and I drag myself higher, vowing I’ll drive straight to Carson’s. He’s off tonight. He should be there.

  Except . . . shit. My car. I left it by the road. What if someone reports it? That would place me in the local area of the crime.

  Worse, what if he finds it? If he found out who it was registered to . . . I shudder, forcing my hands to dig deeper into the dirt. I hit something hard.

  Tree root? It curls around my fingers and I jerk back, exposing the long, delicate bones of a hand.

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

  Vomit surges into my mouth. That’s what he was covering up? A body?

  I kick harder, powering onto the forest floor in jerks; then, crouching, I press both hands onto my knees and try to catch my breath. In. Out. In. Out.

  A fucking body!

  I push to my feet and take off at a dead run. Even so, it still takes me almost twenty minutes to reach my car. I keep stopping, leaning against trees to listen. Nothing. No one’s following me. I’m alone.

  Or maybe not.

  Because when I break through the woods and emerge on the street, someone’s already been there. My car is still parked up on the curb, but there’s a line of footprints—orangey-red and heading out of the woods—leading to the driver’s door.

  They’re the same color as my filthy fists and clothes.

  I take a few steps closer, tell myself that, possibly, this doesn’t matter. When it rains in Georgia, everything turns orange-red. It’s from all the clay. Maybe it’s someone out for a walk, a jogger cutting through.

  Then comes the low, lilting whistle and my heart rams into my throat.

  He’s close.

  And that’s when I notice how the footprints don’t go past the car. They go around it. They circle the vehicle and walk back to the woods.

  He checked my license plate.

  He’s going to figure out who I am.

  I drive straight to a gas station—ignore the attendant’s stares—and buy a GoPhone, dialing Carson’s cell from memory. He doesn’t pick up.

  I sit on the curb next to my car and try again. Still doesn’t answer. He probably doesn’t recognize the number. He’s waiting for a voice mail that I’m never going to leave. Too risky.

  Kind of like staying here. I scan the gas station’s parking lot again. Empty. So why do I still feel exposed?

  Maybe it’s the head injury. I’ve had so many by now I’m going to end up stupid. My left eye is swollen, but still open enough for me to realize my vision’s gone funny, blurry. I probably shouldn’t be driving.

  I dial Carson’s cell again and get his voice mail. While I’m listening to his message, I count the bubbles of light drifting in the corner of my vision. Six. Six is a nice number.

  Or not.

  I disconnect and lurch to my feet, bracing one shaking hand against the Mini’s hood. Good. I haven’t passed out or started screaming.

  Now where to?

  Home. I angle myself into the car and start the ignition. I need to get home and check the security system and locks.

  What if he’s already there?

  I shift the car back into park and redial Carson. This time, he answers on the second ring.

  “What? Who is this?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Why the hell are you calling—”

  “I need you to get to Judge Bay’s house.” I lean my head against the steering wheel and close both eyes so the bubbles disappear. “I just found a body.”

  I hang up with Carson and go straight home, check the alarm system, check the locks, check the windows.

  Everything looks good.

  It makes me smile until I realize of course they would look good. If he slipped unnoticed into the Bays’ house, why should our place be any different?

  The thought makes tears prick my eyes.

  Bren and Lily will be home tonight. How could I endanger them like this? How could I have screwed up so badly? I nearly got caught. I touched a body.

  I hold on to the kitchen counter and take three deliberate breaths. I’m overreacting. There’s no need to panic . . . yet. I know he has my license plate number. I don’t know how long it will take him to trace it—depends on his skill set or his connections and either one could take a while.

  So for now, I’m good.

  I just don’t know for how long. />
  My legs give out and I end up on the floor, slumped up against the bottom cabinets. Dimly I’m aware that I’m leaving dirt everywhere. I need to change, but I’m scared to go upstairs. I’m scared he’s already here, waiting for me.

  I tuck my knees under my chin. Oh, God, I am in so much trouble. Not just me. Bren. Lily. If he traces me to my sister—

  There’s a soft whump as the garage door turns on. My stomach rolls. The garage. I didn’t check the garage. I scramble forward, land on both knees as my mud-slicked feet shoot out from under me.

  The door scrapes open.

  “Wicked?”

  Relief turns my bones mushy. It’s Griff. Holding a pizza. He stares at me so long I think he’s going to turn around and leave. Then, suddenly, he’s at my side. His arms are around me and I shouldn’t plaster myself against him—I’m muddy, bloody, maybe even crying—and I can’t let him go.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “I finished early. I wanted—the hell, Wick? What happened to your head?”

  “I . . . fell. In a hole.”

  “What?” Griff’s face wads up. He touches his fingers to the cut above my eye. “Wait. Back up. Start from the beginning.”

  I can’t. I have no idea what to say. Everything I can think of will only piss him off and I’m not even sure I know where the beginning is. When I caught Todd? When Carson said I wasn’t finished?

  “Jesus, your skin feels like ice.” Griff wraps his hands around mine. He’s right. The thought of telling him the truth has hollowed me, left nothing but chill.

  “I was working the job,” I say at last.

  “Same one as before?” Griff’s rubbing my arms now, hard. Bits of dirt scatter onto the floor. “Tracking down Bay?”

  “I broke into his house to plant the sniffer.”

  Griff’s hands stop.

  “Someone else was there—someone who wasn’t Bay or Ian. I ran and he ran after me.” The words are hurling out of me now and I have to put both hands on the floor to keep myself from collapsing. “I don’t know who he is or what he was doing there. I think he’s going to figure out who I am. He found my car. Saw the license plate.”

  “And you thought he was coming through your garage door. You thought I was him.”

  I nod.

  “Did you check the house? The security system?”

  More nods. It’s all I can manage.

  “You need to get out of those clothes. You want help up the stairs?”

  Do not say yes. Do. Not. Say. Yes.

  “Yes.”

  Griff looks away, his jaw flexes once. “You want me to wait outside the bathroom while you shower?”

  My fingers curve into the kitchen tile and I have to concentrate on breathing so I don’t think about what I want to say and shouldn’t.

  Doesn’t matter because all that comes out is, “Yes.”

  I start to stand, but Griff tucks me into him, lifts me so I’m pinned against his chest. “Griff, please, it’s not—”

  “It is.”

  Griff stalks up the stairs, puts me down outside my bathroom, and goes inside to crank the hot water. Steam fills the room and I follow him, lean against the vanity counter, shivering, as he piles fresh towels near the shower door.

  “I’ll get you some clean clothes and try to wipe up the mud downstairs,” Griff says, drying his wet hands on the backs of his jeans. “You don’t want Bren finding it. Move, okay?”

  I stare at him. Move?

  Oh, because I’m in his way. He wants to leave.

  I want him to stay. I put one hand on Griff’s chest, feel his heartbeat. I take my other hand and lock the door.

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

  Griff retreats a step. “What’re you doing, Wick?”

  Wick. Not Wicked. Which is what this is, isn’t it? I want Griff. I want his mouth, his hands. I want him to hold me so I stop shivering.

  “I—” I kiss him. It’s not pretty. He’s too tall. I have to tug him down to me, and when I do, he hesitates and I nearly sob. Please don’t let me have damaged this too.

  “Please,” I breathe. His hands find my jaw, my cheeks. He smoothes back my hair, and my skin warms like always. How can everything be so wrong and he stays so perfect?

  “God, you’re so—” Griff groans against my hair and the way his voice turns rough feels like want.

  I tug at his shirt, yanking it over his head and leaving muddy handprints across his chest. I’m not being careful.

  Neither is he.

  His hands work my jeans loose. They crumple at my feet and he lifts me out of them. We stumble into the shower together and I yelp when the hot water hits my skin. Griff pivots, pins me to the wall. His fingers knot in my hair, angling my head for another kiss.

  His mouth covers mine and I’m gone. My arms loop around Griff’s neck and he lifts me to meet him, pressing my shoulders into the wall. I love this. I love how he takes me out of me, until the water hits the dirt and suddenly all I can smell is mud and decay and I gasp.

  “Wicked.” Griff loosens his grip and I stare dumbly at him, hearing a whistle in my head that makes my body go cold. Water sluices down his face, tiny droplets catching in his eyelashes. “Slow down.”

  I can’t. He’s begging me to stop, but his hands are telling me how I’m wanted, how I’m powerful.

  Like what happened to me didn’t really happen.

  I choke on my sob so it doesn’t emerge in a scream. Tears crowd my eyes and I push away from him.

  I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry.

  I’m already crying.

  In front of Griff. Oh, God.

  It’s coming out in big, ugly gasps now, bending me in half and driving my knees to the tile. I can’t stop. I’m crying for Chelsea and for me.

  Because I don’t want to do this anymore.

  I end up sprawled at Griff’s feet, and when he gathers me close, I want to die. This is not how I want him to see me.

  This isn’t how I want to see me. Griff holds my head against his chest so our breathing comes down together. It’s almost enough to make me feel like I’ve survived it.

  Until the GoPhone vibrates on the counter.

  I fumble with a towel before picking it up. The screen is smeared with mud, making the incoming call barely legible. Carson.

  Griff sees it too. “Whoever it is can wait.”

  “It can’t—it’s Carson.” Now I’m the one who retreats, shuffles around to separate our clothes. When I pass him his T-shirt, all I can see is how my muddy fingers made the fabric look bloodstained.

  Griff catches my hand and something wordless snakes between us. He wants to talk. I want to disappear. I can’t believe I fell apart. Well, I can believe it. I wish I hadn’t.

  Because it feels like I just changed everything.

  The phone buzzes again and Griff looks at me, the air between us wrapped with everything he will not say: Don’t answer, don’t put Carson first, don’t do this. And I have to and I’m not and I have no choice. It looks like I’m putting Carson first and I’m not. I’m putting Griff and Lily and Bren first by keeping Carson at bay. I should explain that.

  I angle the phone against my ear instead. “Yeah?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Home. I had to check the security system.”

  “We have to talk.”

  “Tell him to screw off.” Griff moves toward me and, without thinking, I shy away, stopping myself too late.

  “Wick? Are you there?”

  I keep my eyes trained on Griff. “Where do you want to meet?”

  “My house. In an hour.”

  I should probably pretend I have no idea where Carson lives. Definitely shouldn’t reveal I scoped his place once because I thought it might be useful information.

  “Fine,” I say, and disconnect, tossing the phone onto the bathro
om counter. I stare at it so I don’t have to meet Griff’s eyes. “I have to meet Carson. His house. It’s a few minutes from here.”

  “I’ll go with you . . . if you want.”

  Of course I want. I should be ashamed of how grateful that makes me. I start to tell him anyway and stop. Instead, I pull up my chin.

  “I’ll clean out the Mini,” Griff says, studying the wall above my head. “If it’s half as muddy as you—”

  “You don’t have to protect me.”

  “I couldn’t if I tried.” He walks out, leaving the bathroom door wide open.

  Run after him. Apologize.

  No way.

  I scrub one hand over my swollen eyes. He makes it sound like I enjoy this shit, like I go looking for it. It’s not like that. It’s not.

  I open my mouth to tell him it’s not about what I might ruin. It’s about what I will save. Too late though—Griff’s feet have already hit the stairs. I’m alone. This isn’t the happily ever after he signed on for, but this is who I turned out to be.

  Carson doesn’t live in Peachtree City proper. He’s probably fifteen minutes outside the city limits. It’s a small house at the end of a long dirt road, bordered on three sides by thick trees that rise up like broken teeth. The odds of anyone seeing us are next to nil. Even so, Carson still makes us park the Mini well behind the house.

  Griff pulls the keys from the ignition, and as he reaches for the car door, I reach for him. “Griff.”

  He’s already walking away, the lines of his shoulders sharp under his faded T-shirt. Carson waits at the door and, silently, we all pile into the living room, where Carson collapses on a swaybacked couch and helps himself to the bottle of Jack propped on the coffee table.

  “Classy,” Griff says.

  Carson pauses, plastic Solo cup at his lips. “Don’t be a smart-ass. I’m only here long enough to shower and get something to eat.”

  “That’s getting ‘something to eat’? I must be doing it wrong.”

  “Again, don’t be a smart-ass.” Carson’s voice rises and, next to me, Griff tenses, his feet push into the floor. It makes Carson smile.