I stare out the car window, gripping the DVD case even harder because Bren’s not talking about Todd and she knows nothing about Carson. She’s worried about my mom’s suicide and whether I’ll obsess over it because I saw a dead body.
And even though Bren means well, I’m suddenly, savagely irritated with her. I wish people would stop examining me for damage.
“What happened tonight wasn’t suicide,” I say, taking a shaky breath and letting it out bit by bit. “It’s not like what happened to my mom. That girl was murdered.”
Bren flinches. “I want you to talk to Dr. Norcut tonight. This can’t have been good for you.”
Good for me? She makes the whole thing sound like we’re discussing my vegetable intake. It’s stupid . . . until I realize there’s guilt seeping under her determination.
“What happened tonight wasn’t your fault,” I whisper.
“Maybe not. That doesn’t mean it was good for you though.” Bren pops open the car door, and under the garage light, the smudges under her eyes turn black. “I think you need to talk to someone.”
“I’m really tired. Can we do it later?” Or like, maybe never? I hold Bren’s gaze, trying to look equal parts pitiful and hopeful. I don’t want to stoop to a quivering lower lip, but . . .
“Fine. We can wait for morning.” Bren rubs one hand over her face. “I need to pay the babysitter and check on Lily. Try to get some rest, all right?”
I nod, reaching for the door handle.
“Wick?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not getting out of this. I’m calling Dr. Norcut’s emergency line tonight.” Bren grabs her purse, heaves it onto one shoulder. “God help that answering service if they give me any shi—problems about making you an appointment too.”
Norcut’s answering service always gives her problems when she calls. In fact, they give her so many problems that I start to tell Bren it’s a waste of time. Too late. She’s already out of the car, charging into the house. Honestly, she should just wait until the psychiatrist’s assistant gets in on Monday. If she calls tonight, she’ll be on the phone for hours . . . which might not be a bad thing.
It might even be great because I’d have all the time I need to go through the DVD.
Tucked into the waistband of my skirt, my mother’s name begins to burn.
Upstairs, I turn on all the lights, make it look like daytime in my bedroom. I shouldn’t, because Bren always notices and I always refuse to explain. We both know why though: Todd came for me in the dark. Admitting I’m scared—even to myself—is embarrassing.
Turning off the lights is worse.
Considering Bren thinks I’m headed for a nervous breakdown, I should probably do something to look more on board. Maybe turning off one light or screwing the grates onto my air-conditioning vents. That would be progress.
Except I don’t think I can manage either.
After discovering Todd installed video cameras in my room’s vents, I took down the painted metal grates. They’ve been lying in my closet for months. It’s comforting to be able to look up and see the air-conditioning vents are still empty.
Maybe I’ll screw them on again . . . later.
I toss the DVD case onto my desk and power on the computer, waiting for it to return to life. Because I run a metric ton of firewall and antivirus software, my system takes longer than most to boot up. Usually, I don’t mind, but tonight it feels like the longest four minutes of my life as I change out of my costume and into yoga pants and a sweatshirt.
Once I’m logged in, I slide in the DVD and start a scan program, checking to see if any viruses are waiting for me, then, while the program finishes the check, I open Firefox and search “Officer Hart Peachtree City.”
There’s a loan officer . . . a technology officer . . . but no police officer by that name. The back of my skull prickles. Could he be new? Possibly. Then again, I was at a costume party. Maybe he was in dress-up? I decide I’ll have to look into new officer hires and switch windows, closing my search page and opening the local newspaper’s website.
Sure enough, there’s a human interest story about Todd’s family and how devastated they are, how they wish Bren wouldn’t divorce him in his hour of need. I’ve never met my former foster dad’s parents and, frankly, I’m not feeling the lack. Instead, I go straight for the comment section.
Hidden behind anonymous handles, our neighbors are letting it rip. Some are siding with Bren. Some are showing support for Tessa Waye, Todd’s first victim. I’m interested in the ones who are out to blast my adoptive mom.
Like BrownBear47, for instance. According to BB, Bren is a coward and a fool and is destined for bankruptcy. How nice we live in a country where everyone can have an opinion.