“I put a tracker on your car, so when the skeevy-looking guy drove it, I knew where you were.” The words rush from him, piling up in a messy spill, and even though I expected them, they still sting. “I’m sorry, okay? Really sorry. It was shitty, but I wanted to see if it worked and I wanted to see you and—and we could talk about my total lack of boundaries if you would let me take you to dinner.”
“That would be like giving you permission to stalk me.” I check for Morris again, spotting him near two cops, everyone gesturing with their arms. “Where’d Jason leave my car anyway?”
“Not far. Other side of the woods. Shouldn’t be long before the cops find it.”
“Goody.”
Milo makes a strained noise. “Look. I fucked up, okay? But this worked out really well for you.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘really.’” I could say way worse. Without that explosion . . . I start shaking harder.
Milo takes an uneven breath. “I feel worse that I left you, Wick. After the blast, I tried to find you and I couldn’t and the cops were coming and I had residue all over my hands and I couldn’t afford to get caught.”
“I understand.” And, surprisingly, I do. I get it. I would’ve even told him to run. We’re the same like that. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to get caught . . . and I’m sort of glad you stalked me. The bombing was . . . nicely done.”
“So does that mean we’re dating?”
“I’m hanging up, Milo.” I do too, but not before I hear his laugh, liquid and hot, in my ear. It stays with me as I erase Morris’s Recent Calls list, lingers as I walk around the back of the ambulance.
All three EMTs are with Judge Bay, and neighbors are drawing closer to the police lines. It’s hard to recognize any faces. I probably don’t want to anyway. Until my eyes snag on a familiar shape. For a second, I think it’s Milo. It’s not.
It’s Griff.
And I’m two strides toward him before I even realize I’m moving. I duck around two police officers heading for the judge and, for once, know everything I need to say to Griff. I can make this right.
You came, I will say. Always, he will say. I’m sorry, I will say. We’ll put this behind us, we both will say because I’ll tell him the truth about everything. Only I get closer and none of that comes out because, when I reach for him, my fingers circling his bare wrist, Griff jerks away.
“Don’t,” he says, and I freeze. “I had to see if you were okay. That’s all.”
“I’m okay.” It’s a whisper and I want it to be more. I clear my throat in a sharp cough and Griff’s eyes waver. I thought he was looking at me. He wasn’t. Griff was staring at the gouge on my face. He’s still staring at the gouge on my face. “Thanks for coming.”
The skin along Griff’s throat tightens as he swallows. “I want to hold you and I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t. If I touch you once, Wicked, I’ll have to touch you again.”
“Griff—” His eyes lift to mine and something inside me pitches sideways . . . cracks.
“Bye, Wicked.”
No. No. No. A million nos and I can’t breathe even one. Griff steps away as a hand snatches my shoulder, spins me around.
“Miss, I need you to stay put.” It’s another officer. He props me up by my bad arm and pain makes the world stumble sideways.
“I can’t. I—I need Detective Carson.” I tug myself from his grip. “Is he around?”
The officer shakes his head. “No.”
“Will he be here soon?”
The guy hesitates. “They can’t reach him.”
“Can’t—” My stomach plummets into my feet. You can always reach Carson. Always. There’s only one thing that would keep him away from watching Bay’s destruction: his own.
Behind us, someone calls for the officer. “Just a little while longer,” he promises, walking away. Leaving me alone again.
It bumps my heart into my mouth. Milo’s plan to tank Carson. If it worked, Carson’s storage unit will be packed with ATF agents busy tracing their leads to him. Considering the detective’s already missing, I bet he knows. He knows and he’s running.
If I could get to Carson’s house before the agents do, I could steal back my desktop and the footage of Griff. I bite down a laugh.
I could steal back my life.
49
Revenge looks like this: It’s stealing Morris’s EMT jacket from the hook in the ambulance and walking from the crime scene like I was never a victim. It’s finding my car before the cops do and using the spare key—the one I never thought I’d need when Bren stuck the magnetized box to the Mini’s undercarriage—to drive away.
It’s walking up Carson’s muddy driveway in the dark, wanting to laugh.
I should be shaking and, instead, I’m smiling. It feels hard, like something carved with knives.
No more Carson. It’s done.
Or it will be once I finish this. Steal my computer. Wipe the detective’s. I’ll be free. Griff will be free. The possibility is a sharp and brilliant pang. He’ll be safe. We both will.
Doesn’t take long to reach the house. It sits, still and black, in the moonlight and I have to force myself to wait when all I want to do is run across the yard cheering.