I want to be good for me.
I head for the door, stepping around mounds of discarded laundry and making it only a few feet before I turn around. Should I leave him like this? I chew my thumbnail. Unconscious, Milo looks younger and smaller than he usually does. What if he wakes and needs something? What if he wakes and his dad’s returned?
Oh, screw it. It’s not like I’m going to go back to school. I push a balled-up sweatshirt off a nearby armchair and curl my legs under me, watching him. I don’t feel myself fall asleep. I must have though, because when I open my eyes, Milo is watching me.
“Do you always sleep like that?” His voice is frayed like he’s barely holding himself together.
“Like what?”
“All tucked up into yourself, like you’re an animal used to sleeping underground.”
I roll to my other hip, draw my legs tight underneath me. Too many nights of no sleep and too much stress and too much, well, everything have gotten to me. My entire body feels weighed down by rocks. “Go to sleep, Milo, or I’ll call 911.”
His laugh is low and dark. It’s the last thing I remember before I slip under.
I wake up again two hours later and Milo is still sleeping hard. I spend a couple minutes staring at him, trying to decide how I feel about him getting Griff to give me the security feed, and because I can’t decide, I concentrate instead on whether Milo’s dying.
And whether I should call 911.
But his coloring is almost dark cinnamon again, which is closer to normal for him, he seems to be comfortable, and, honestly, I have zero way of explaining any of this to the EMTs, so I leave him alone.
I pad across the room, heading for my sweatshirt, and something soft catches my foot. I look down, roll my eyes. That’s a bra. Who would leave her bra behind?
A girl who wanted an excuse to come back.
I pull on my sweatshirt and check the time on my phone. Huh, right now I would be in Spanish class, which means I have almost four hours before I need to be home. So what am I going to do with myself?
In response, my stomach pinches. I need to eat. Considering this is Milo’s place, though, I have an equal chance of finding food or blowing myself sky-high. I study the door to his pantry, weighing my options. What if he’s booby-trapped it?
I take a deep breath, tell myself I’m being an idiot, and yank the door open. No explosion. Not really any food either. Most of the pantry is devoted to spare computer parts. What does Milo do for meals around here? Ethernet cables and soldering equipment?
Eventually, I find club crackers and ginger ale sitting on a crate of motherboards and I take a sleeve of crackers and a soda for me, leaving the rest on Milo’s bedside table.
Four hours to kill is a seriously nice windfall. What should I do with it?
My computer’s at home, but I don’t really have much to work on anyway since I already turned in my limited findings to Carson.
That leaves my mom. I could drive around Five Points, see if I could find Sam again. Stupid idea . . . that lingers.
What if I told her I saw the video? I could say I know my mom jumped. She wasn’t pushed.
I don’t know why I need to make that distinction.
Maybe because I’m hoping she’ll remember something else. Maybe because I’m pissed.
Either way, I take the keys off Milo’s worktable, lock the door in case his dad returns before I do, and head for Five Points. Milo’s contact had said Sam sticks to the same general area, so I head for the alley we found her in and waste fifteen minutes looking for her. There’s no sign of Sam anywhere, but as I pass by the same pile of trash again, I recognize the bottle I stole from Bren’s wine fridge.
It’s empty, of course. And what I assumed was trash isn’t actually trash. I think it’s Sam’s stuff. I toe through mismatched tennis shoes, a box of lighters, a one-eared stuffed bunny. Impossible to tell if any of it’s hers. I think it might be though.
Which means she’ll be back soon, right?
Behind me, a bottle tips over and rolls past my feet. I turn, hope screwing tight around my chest.
But it isn’t Sam.
It’s Jason Baines.
38
“Heard you were looking for me,” he says.
“Somehow I doubt that.” I ease to my feet, eyes already hunting for the exit. No good though. Only way out is the way I came in and Jason’s grinning like he knows he’s blocking it.
“Let me clarify.” Jason runs one hand through his short, dark hair, and the oh-so-casual move reveals the nine millimeter tucked in the waistband of his jeans. “Sam told me you were looking for some security footage.”
I start to say I’ve already seen it and something keeps me quiet. Someone told Sam “all about” the footage and if that someone is Jason . . . I bump up my chin. “And? Sam’s the one who told me about it.”
“I think you should leave this alone.”