Gone. Gone. Gone. Carson’s gone.
I skirt the yard, staying close to the tree line, until I reach the rear of the house. If his alarm is set, I’ll have maybe twenty minutes before the police show up. That’s fine though. I need less than ten. I tug on the latex gloves I stole from the ambulance and I pull the Mini’s tire iron from underneath my hoodie, taking two running steps and smashing the door’s side window.
Nothing. I jam my hand through the opening and pop the locks. Best to assume it’s a silent alarm and hurry. I stumble through the unlit kitchen, making it to the living room by feel alone. My hip grazes the worn couch. Two more strides and my shin rams into Carson’s computer desk.
Bingo.
I drop to my knees, one hand groping for the CPU, the other grabbing my bootable jump drive from my bag’s pocket. I plug it into Carson’s computer and punch the power button, tilting the screen down. It makes it hard to see what I’m doing but doesn’t throw much light into the room.
After a minute, a blue menu appears. The command prompt blinks “boot:” and I quickly type “autonuke.” The screen jumps to black, a progress bar appearing at the top. The computer clicks and whirs as the hard drive begins shredding all its data. By the time the program finishes, the computer’s information will be completely unrecoverable.
Lights twirl across the room.
I lift my head, see a car easing up to the house. A man gets out.
Carson’s home.
I wait for him in the dark. Two days ago, shadows this thick would have suffocated me. Now . . . it feels fitting. Right.
Which isn’t to say I’m not thinking about my options. If Carson comes through the rear door, he’ll see the broken glass and know I’m here. If he comes through the front, I could leave through the kitchen. The detective won’t know I’ve been here until I’m way gone.
I watch him linger in front of the still-running car, his shadow stretching through the window and into the room.
Almost to my toes.
Carson moves, a quick, jerky walk toward the porch. Perfect. He’s coming through the front door. For every step forward, I take a step back, my stomach sinking. No time left to search for my computer, but at least Griff will be safe.
By the time Carson’s opening the lock, I’m almost to the kitchen. The door swings open and I pause, waiting for his movement to cover the sounds of my own.
“Wick?” My name is soft, urgent, and nothing like Carson. It stops me dead.
“Wick?” the detective whispers. “If you’re here, you need to run. They’re coming and you can’t be seen here. They’re looking for me.”
No shit. I want to move, but my legs have turned to lead. “Believe me,” I say at last, watching his head twist side to side as he tries—and fails—to locate me in the dark, “I am so gone. I had a few things to finish first though.”
“My computer?”
I don’t say anything.
“Will they be able to find anything on it anymore?”
Again, I don’t say anything and Carson nods, hearing everything. By helping Griff, I’ve helped him. On the one hand, it’s a steep price. On the other . . . there is nothing I won’t pay for Griff to go free.
“Then let me repay the favor,” Carson says, taking three heavy steps into the room. The detective uses his cell to cast a small patch of light on the shelves and, as I watch, he removes several rows of books. They were hiding a safe.
“No point in keeping them anymore.” Carson cradles the desktop and a VHS tape against his chest, carrying them toward me. I’m about to tell him not to come any closer when he stops, puts the both of them on the carpet between us.
“There. Now we’re even.” The detective retreats to the front widows, scanning the yard.
We are not even, but I decide not to argue. I tuck the desktop under one arm, tossing the tape into my bag. “Thanks.”
“Joe Bender was shivved a few hours ago. Any idea why that would happen?”
I turn to go. “Karma?”
“More like something you did.”
Suddenly, I wish there were light. I want to see the detective’s face. He sounds . . . pleased? I can’t tell.
“They had to Life Flight him to the hospital,” Carson continues.
Something inside me squishes flat. “So he made it?”
“No.” The detective pauses to let me digest this, or maybe he’s hunting for some sign that I’m thrilled.
That makes two of us.
“I know you were involved, Wick.”
“Prove it.”
“I don’t have to. You’ve never visited the jail and, suddenly, you’re there twice. And then one of them dies. You want to tell me that’s not connected?”
“Prove. It.”
“I can’t, but other people will have noticed.” The detective’s shoulders round, and in the glow from the headlights, he looks close to collapsing. “There are some things you need to know before I go.”
I don’t care. I don’t. My stomach squeezes uneasily and Milo’s smile lights up my head. “Where are you going?”