Griff yanks his book bag onto his shoulder. “I asked my cousin about your mom and he got the recording from her file. I wanted you to get it from me, not Milo, from someone who cares about you, not someone who’s egging you on.”
The pain is brief and brilliant and all I can hear is my mom saying how you will hurt the ones you love even if you shouldn’t. This hurts. Once upon a time, Griff would never have hurt me. Maybe that’s the difference. He no longer loves me like I still love him.
I shake myself. “He’s not egging me on. He’s—”
“If you want to concentrate on the truth, remember that there was nothing to see. She jumped. She was alone.”
She wasn’t, and if she was murdered, if she jumped to save us, if I spent all this time hating her . . . but Griff walks away before I can say a word. He doesn’t even look back, which is just as well probably because now I’m slumped against the lockers, arms folded across my stomach.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Then again, maybe it was.
I love him, and it’s ruined me. He’s ruined me. He walked into my life like any other person, but there was something about the way he talked to me and then something about the way he treated me and then . . . there I was, hostage for another smile. My life was not my own anymore.
I sacrificed Griff to protect him and Lily and Bren from Carson and from the futures they deserve and he could destroy.
What does that leave for me?
In my bag, my phone buzzes and I ignore it. I can’t take my eyes off what’s left of Griff. I can see glimpses of his head, his shoulders as he moves through the crowd. I watch until he’s gone.
My phone stops buzzing.
Starts again.
I stick my hand in, fish around a bit before finding my cell. Milo. I’m not sure I want to answer. Yeah, I’m glad (is that the right word? I’m not sure) I got the security video of my mom. I’m also pissed at him for going behind my back.
As I try to decide, the call rolls to voice mail, starts ringing again.
I press the answer key. “Milo?”
“Wick . . . I need . . . please.”
He sounds rough—hurt—and my throat twists shut. “Are you okay?”
“Please come. Please?”
I can’t. I’m at school. I’m grounded. I’m—the phone clicks. The line’s dead. I hit redial as I head for the parking lot. There’s no answer.
No matter how many times I call.
The restaurant looks as abandoned as ever when I pull in almost thirty minutes later. I beat on the door, but no one answers. I try Milo’s cell again. Still no answer.
Pressing one hand against the front window, I peer through the hazy glass. Someone might be in there. Lights are on and I think—think—I can hear a television playing.
So where the hell is Milo? I start to pound on the door again and pause. There’s a small half-moon carved into the wood next to the doorjamb, a Cheshire cat smile. It’s the same mark Milo left on my CPU’s case and reminds me of his smile.
Which I’m going to wreck if this turns out to be some stupid joke.
I grab the door handle and it turns in my hand. “Milo?”
No answer.
I pick my way around the dust-covered tables, heading for the kitchen door. Is it possible he’s in the computer room? I brush the door with my fingertips, hesitating, and then push my way in. The empty kitchen stretches out on either side of me.
“Milo?”
“Wick.” It’s so soft I almost miss it. I turn, spotting Milo on the kitchen floor. He’s splay-legged with a bottle of Jameson held loosely in one hand. He looks like he’s been airlifted in from some epic party and I’m instantly pissed.
Then he lifts the bottle, revealing a smear of red along his torso.
“Milo, you’re hurt!”
“Just a flesh wound.” He laughs, winces, and settles with giving me a weak smile and swallowing more Jameson. The smile turns into a grimace.
I drop to my knees, using one hand to peel the sodden T-shirt away from his rib cage. “Jesus, we gotta get you out of here.”
Milo doesn’t respond so I wedge one shoulder under him, boost him to his feet. “How did it happen?”
He winces and stares into space, teeth gritted.
“Milo,” I prompt, but he still won’t look at me. “It was your dad, wasn’t it?”
“He’s . . . not well. I upset him.”
I angle us through the door and Milo puts out one hand to steady himself, gasping as he does.
“He wasn’t always like this. Tomorrow he might be totally different.” Milo pauses, his face going pale as he fights through a wave of pain. “I think crazy is like a bug in your brain, scuttling under your skull, wrenching loose all your wires.”
“Milo, this is way worse than some bug.”
“It’s fine. Really. He’s actually perfectly normal . . . except when he’s not.” He draws in a wobbly breath. “There are monsters living inside us and, sometimes, they win.”
God help me if he’s going to get all philosophical again. “We should get you checked out by a hospital.”
“No hospitals.”