I lift my face for a kiss and he leans down, grabbing me with both hands. I hook my fingers into his belt loops and angle us closer.
It makes him kiss me harder. He feels so good. Perfect even.
His mouth moves over mine, urging me on, and I can feel that familiar hunger crawling through me, threatening to take me apart as his lips trail across my lower lip, along my jaw, and find that impossibly sensitive spot on my neck.
“I gotta go,” Griff whispers against my skin.
“Okay.” It’s not, but I pretend it is. I pull back, smooth my hair until you can’t probably (hopefully) tell we’ve been kissing.
Griff watches me and, when his eyes meet mine, they’re darker than they were before. Hotter.
“See you at school?” he asks.
“Yeah. Sure.”
Griff waits for me to open the front door before he starts his bike. He lifts one hand in the air, pulls into the street. I drag myself inside and barely have my shoes off before Bren’s calling me from the kitchen.
“Wick?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s a package for you. I put it on the hall table.”
Package? I drop my bag on the floor, kick it next to Lily’s yellow backpack. There are about forty different catalogs smeared across the table. Most of them are for gourmet food or cooking tools, the rest are for kids’ toys Lily and I are too old for.
“Do you see it? Is it from one of the colleges we looked at?” The oven slams and something, dinner probably, clatters onto the counter. “Don’t forget they’re supposed to send you more information.”
Forget? How could I possibly forget when you remind me every day? It should irritate me, but more and more Bren makes me smile.
As promised, the package is at the table edge. It looks too small for glossy college brochures and for a second I don’t want to touch it. Something’s wrong here. There’s no return address. The label is computer printed. It looks clean . . . I know it’s not.
And in my head, I hear Todd breathe my name.
I press my shoulders against the wall and tell myself to stop it. This isn’t like what happened before.
“Wick?” Bren sounds closer this time like she’s approaching the hall. “Did you find it?”
“Yes! Thanks!”
Get moving. I work my fingernail against the tape, then lift the box lid.
“It’s not the college stuff,” I yell, bracing one hand against the table to keep my knees from crumbling. “It’s that study guide I ordered.”
Only it isn’t. It’s another DVD.
How can she look even thinner? I sit at my desk, knees tucked under my chin, as the interview progresses. It’s like watching one of those stop-motion videos. In every new interview, she looks smaller.
Even more scared.
It’s the only thing that feels familiar about any of this: her fear and my . . . hate? I pull my knees closer. It used to be hate. Maybe it still is. It would have to be, right? I hate her for jumping. I hate her for leaving us with him.
Mostly, I hate how our love was never enough, how his was somehow better because he withheld it.
I can’t think about that right now. I minimize the video, calling first the city police department and then the county’s, asking the receptionists if I can speak with Officer Hart. Even though I’ve blocked my cell from showing on their caller ID, I’m still twitchy, ready to hang up if Hart answers—only he doesn’t because no one’s heard of an Officer Hart at either location.
“In fact,” the last receptionist says, “we’ve never had any officer by that name. Sorry.”
She disconnects and I stare at my computer screen, my breathing high and wheezy. I should toss the DVD now. No Hart at either location? Then who is he? This is some sick game. I should . . . I hit the play button.
“You have to let me go.” My mom’s at the same table. Someone’s given her a wilted sandwich and she’s pulling it apart. The gesture is so Lily it cracks me. “You have to let me stop.”
“When you’ve given us what we want.”
“I’ve tried!”
“Have you?”
“I—I—” A sob hijacks her answer, but they keep pushing her, setting my teeth on edge.
Or maybe it’s just from her crying. I have to force myself to sit through it and no matter how much I adjust the computer’s volume, bass, or treble I still know the sound of her. Coming through a set of speakers or overheard through the walls of my once-upon-a-time bedroom, I know her.
And, suddenly, I miss my mom so much it makes my throat go thick.
“What else do you have, Mrs. Tate?”
It’s a new voice. Male. I rerun the video so I can hear it again. Even though I’ve been around a shit ton of Peachtree City cops, I don’t recognize this one. For the next four minutes, it’s nothing more than her soft sobs and their urgent words. I can’t make out anything . . . then the video ends. Black screen. White letters.
See How She Was Used?
Bile touches the back of my mouth.
I turn the monitor off, lean my forehead against the edge of the desk, and focus on how my bare feet press the hardwood floor. I don’t understand. What’s the point of this? Why is someone sending me these?