“Tell me—”
“Not yet, Wicked. Not here.” I expect an argument, and shockingly, there isn’t one. No telling how long that will last. I steer her toward the backyard, hoping it will be quieter. No luck though. There’s a couple in the pool and a half-assed volleyball game going on. Thankfully, no one seems to notice as I pull Wick toward some chaise lounges. It’s quieter there. You can see the whole backyard . . . the narrow alley separating Lauren’s backyard from the road . . .
Detective Carson parked at the curb.
Wick exhales hard, her shoulders straightening.
“He’s here for you,” I say.
Wick turns slowly. “Oh yeah? How do you know he’s not here for you, Griffin? You’re the one who jumped into the car with him.”
I pause, swallow. Can’t. “You saw that, huh?” I force a smile, hold it. “And I thought I was supposed to be the stalker, Wicked.”
“You’re avoiding my question.”
“Not really. I guess I’m just surprised.” I study her, eyes snagging on how chill bumps are climbing her arms. She isn’t just scared of Carson. She’s scared of me. “Considering it’s you,” I continue, scrubbing one hand through my hair, “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Yeah, I guess you shouldn’t.”
God, I love it when she’s cocky. Or is she really just scared? Defensive? From the corner of my eye, I see two guys from the volleyball game watching us. Not good. We don’t need any more of an audience than we already have.
I collapse on the first chaise lounge and pat the cushion beside me. “You look miserable. Stop drawing attention and just sit with me.”
She shakes her head. “I’d rather stand.”
“I’d rather you sit with me.” I grab her wrist, trying to be playful. Actually, screw that. I wanted an excuse to touch her. I always want an excuse to touch her. I keep my grip light. “He can’t touch you here. He can’t touch either of us here. Just relax. Please.”
Wick glares at me. She’s either trying to spot my game or picturing what I’d look like on fire. I’m really starting to like that glare, but I value my life too much to tell her that.
Slowly, begrudgingly, Wick sits next to me, leaning into my side. I’m so shocked I can’t move, let alone figure out something to say. I expect her to stay rigid, but she relaxes against me, fitting . . . perfectly.
“So what’s the deal?” Wick whispers.
“They wanted me to come in for questioning.”
“About what?”
“My father.” I watch the yard so I don’t stare at her. It’s surprisingly easy to stick to the lie. “He didn’t take off to California just for the weather or whatever. He left to get away from his dealer. It’s really no big deal, Wicked.”
My thumb drifts across her palm, reminding me that I never let her go. I should have, but now that we’re so close, I trace circles just so I can watch the goose bumps walk up her arms.
“I thought it would be better to go with Detective Carson than do the interview in the principal’s office.”
Wick shudders, sucking in a breath that has nothing to do with me.
I know what she’s thinking and I keep my thumb moving. “We did the interview in private. No one else knows. I’m seventeen. I’m protected. Carson doesn’t know anything about Joe. What happened . . . it doesn’t change anything.”
“If Joe hears about it, he’ll come after you. It’s not safe for you to be involved anymore.”
Wick sits up, and for the first time, I hold on to her. Hard. “He won’t know if you don’t tell,” I say. “And I don’t think you would do that to me.”
She’s back to the glare.
“I’m safe,” I say slowly, watching how the words register in her eyes and hating myself. “But you’re not.”
On the way to Lauren’s, I planned everything I would say to Wick, but now that I’m here, I’m doing a crappy job. I try to focus on the highlights: Carson’s after your dad and he’s also after you, but Wick doesn’t seem to be hearing me.
She stares into the distance, saying nothing, and after a while, I’m quiet too.
“Why you?” she whispers finally.
“He thinks we’re alike.” I hadn’t planned to say that. It’s not really the right answer to her question, but it’s the right answer for me. We are alike. I see myself in her. “We go to the same school. We have a similar background. We were neighbors before, you know, the foster care stuff. He thinks I’m an inroad.”
She nods.
I swallow. I’m not sure what kind of reaction I was going for, but this isn’t it. Wick’s barely moving. It’s like she’s in shock. “Hilarious that Carson would think that though, right? I’ve known you for how long and we still barely talk?”
Stupid joke. I regret it as soon as I say it, but Wick doesn’t seem like she’s hearing me anyway. No. Strike that. She does—every time I say Carson’s name she flinches.