“Let’s get out of here,” I say.
Milo nods and turns the ignition. As we pull away from the curb, I stare through the rain-spattered windshield, trying to decide if I believe any of what Sam said.
I’m scared to admit it . . . I do.
Milo makes a hard right and plows the Crown Vic through an enormous puddle. “So, all flirting aside, why’d you call me for this?”
“Figured you would have better contacts with this stuff.”
“What’s that mean? I know crazy better than you do?”
I drum my fingers against my leg, debating my answer. I recognize the pissed-off simmering under the joke. I use it too frequently myself and it’s another unpleasant reminder of how similar we are. “Sorry, yeah, because of your dad and all.”
Milo nods. “And your artist sidekick?”
My insides clench. “We broke up.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe it. I got some bullies expelled. He was . . . upset.”
Milo settles deeper into his seat as we switch lanes. “Getting bullies expelled sounds like a good thing.”
“Griff had a problem with the way I did it.”
“Do tell.”
“I got ahold of one of the guys’ cell phone. It had video of them smoking up and drinking at a lacrosse game so I, uh, posted it to the school’s YouTube account and then locked the account.”
“Nicely done.”
I glance at Milo, search his face to see if he’s lying. He’s not and a flicker of pride licks the inside of my rib cage. “Griff was pissed. He thinks I stooped to their level.”
Milo shrugs. “You believe in true love? Like love at first sight or whatever?”
I have no idea where he’s going with this, but I know my answer. “No.”
“Me either. I think it presupposes that love is perfect—that people are perfect or they can be. I think you’re supposed to fall in love with someone who’s perfect for you. Someone whose failings are arranged in a way that they hinge with yours.”
“Wow, that sounds like something out of a fortune cookie. A really big, long-winded fortune cookie.”
“I’m being serious. Love is supposed to make you a better version of who you really are—not who the other person wants you to be.”
“I’m not sure I want to be the person I am.”
Milo cuts me a quick glance, his face half illuminated from the dash. “Is that him talking? Or you?”
I look out the window so I don’t have to answer. “You think Sam was lying?”
“No.”
“Me either.”
“How’d you know to go looking for her?” Milo asks. “What made you decide after all this time?”
Because I got some gifts in the mail. Sounds incredibly stupid though and would be even worse if I said it out loud. Griff may have been right about this being convenient. Considering the messages attached to the end of the interviews, he might have even more than just a point.
But I’m not walking away.
“Oh, you know how it goes,” I say at last. “I’ve been thinking about her for a few years now. Went ahead and decided to follow up.”
“Riiiigggghhhhtttt. You going to get that security footage?”
Finally. Something I can be honest about. I look at Milo, smile. “Without a doubt.”
33
I am now going on less than four hours of sleep and I look like it. Bags under my eyes? Check. Pasty? Check. Bloodshot eyes? Oh my God, yes.
I have a history test this morning and all I can think about is Kyle Bay and that security video.
I need it . . . I’m just not sure how I’m going to get my hands on it.
I zip my messenger bag closed and check my phone. Twenty minutes until Bren has to drop Lily off at school and our adoptive mom is still running around in bare feet. Looks like I’m not the only one who’s had a bad night. Bren streaks past me, muttering about her keys.
“Do you want help?” I ask.
“No, no, I’m fine. Just do some deep breathing or something so you’re calm before your history test. We want you to do well.”
The only way I’m going to do well on my test is through divine intervention, but whatever. Bren gallops past again and I watch her go.
So how am I going to get that video?
The building my mom jumped from has changed property managers twice in the past four years, so odds are pretty good that the recording has been off-sited into storage. And, unfortunately, neither company has any sort of employee portal that I could manipulate, and that would only work if—if—the companies actually kept that sort of material online.
Which I highly doubt they do.
There might be a copy of the security footage at the police department, but that would involve asking Carson for a favor and I’d rather dig my eyes out with spoons.
“Wick, honey, are you getting sick?” Bren slides to a stop in front of me, feeling my forehead with one hand, juggling her car keys and purse with the other. “You don’t look like you feel well.”
Nothing that the contraband energy drink in my bag can’t fix. Bren thinks caffeine will stunt my growth so I have to sneak it.