Christ, of all the effing jobs I could’ve gotten.
Sighing, I turn for the street, crossing Wick’s front yard and heading for the sidewalk. I’m almost to the nearest streetlamp when I hear it. Crunching. Like dead leaves underfoot.
Great. I start to jog. I don’t belong around here and the last thing I need is a nosy neighbor calling the cops, but then the leaves crackle again—right next to me—and I stop. Listen.
I’m face-to-face with an ancient magnolia tree, its overloaded branches dipping toward the dirt.
Could’ve been an animal. I stare into the darkness beyond the leaves, willing something besides shadows to take shape. Awfully heavy for an animal.
I stand a little straighter, rolling my hands into fists. “Who’s there?”
Nothing. Maybe I imagined it. I swing my head side to side. Still nothing. Somehow though . . . I don’t think I imagined it and I don’t think it’s someone’s dog or cat. I slowly pivot, scanning the deserted street until I’m looking up at Wick’s house again. You can see her bedroom window perfectly from here.
I turn back to the magnolia tree and my skin crawls. I feel like someone’s looking at me. Farther up the street, a car slows, turning into a nearby driveway. From the corner of my eye, I watch it pause. The driver’s noticed me. I need to get going.
I take one step, another. No one lunges out of the dark and nothing moves. I turn on my heel, hustling along the sidewalk until I reach one of the paths near the woods. This time of night I’m pretty much alone except for a stray golf cart or two that pass me.
I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Milo Gray’s latest number. We talk enough that I should have him programmed into my contacts, but the guy gets twitchy about leaving any paper trail. I’m pretty sure he works exclusively from burner phones. If I were to get caught, Milo would be so gone. He’s a little paranoid until you get to know him, but he’s the best computer builder I’ve ever met.
He also knows it.
“Hey,” I say when the call connects.
“Hey yourself.” On the other end, someone giggles and Milo sucks in a breath. “I’m kind of busy, Griffin.”
“I need your help.”
“Seriously?” He sounds half strangled.
“Seriously.”
Milo swears and there’s a rustling sound as he leans away from the phone. “Sweetheart,” he says to whoever’s still giggling, “can you give me a minute? I gotta take this call.”
There’s a low murmuring followed by a sharp retort. I can’t understand the words, but I get the tone—female, petulant. When it comes to Milo, everything that hangs around him is female and petulant.
It’s sort of how we met. One of Milo’s hookups happened to be a longtime customer of Paul’s. While the two of them argued weed pricing, Milo and I started talking. He ended up doing my last computer for me, and the way things are going, that sucker better stay running because I won’t be able to afford another one.
“This better be good,” Milo says flatly, returning to me as, somewhere on his end, a door slams. “What kind of help do you need?”
“I’m not sure.” I tuck the phone between my jaw and shoulder, casting a look behind me. The path’s deserted. No one’s following me, but I still feel watched. “You have any experience with the Pandora Code?”
“The virus? Hell no.”
“What do you know about Red Queen?”
“I know you better keep that system I built you away from him. I am not cleaning up the mess he’ll make of it. You’ll be down for weeks, and that’s if you get it up again.”
The path forks and I go left. “How do you know Red Queen’s a he?”
“I don’t, but really, how many girls you know who can do that sort of work?”
“None.” Maybe. The path widens and the trees thin, revealing the massive houses—all yellow-lit—behind them.
“What if that’s your fault?” I ask, studying an empty living room as I go by. There’s an enormous portrait of the family hung on the closest wall and everyone’s smiling. It tugs something inside me and I turn away. “Maybe if you hung around girls who loved something more than their clothes—”
“I do hang around girls who love something more than their clothes. They love me. There’s a big difference, and I still don’t think Red Queen is a girl.”
“Even with that name?”
“So the dude has mommy issues. Whatever.”
Still walking, I turn around, checking behind me. The path is empty, but the hairs on my neck are prickling.
“You ever seen his work up close?” I ask.
Milo pauses, and when he finally speaks, his tone’s turned guarded. “I’ve been following along for a couple years now. I’m kind of a fan.”
“Does he do a signature or something?” I already know the answer, but I’m hoping I’m wrong.