The detective puts another toothpick in his mouth, rolls it from side to side. “I can’t touch him. Bay did prosecution for years before being elected to the bench. The chief says he’s off-limits, but you can. Think of it as a public service.”
Destroying Bay? Not going to lie, I kind of like the feel of it. It’s been ten years and I still hate him. I hate his tasseled loafers, his slicked-down hair, the way his eyes slide right through people like me.
Well . . . people like I used to be.
Underneath my skirt, my fingertips dig into the DVD case and I almost—almost—ask Carson if he knows that Hart guy. Something holds me back though. The detective would want to know why I want to know and then I’d have to explain. No thanks.
“Bay’s out of my league,” I say finally.
“That so?” Carson’s attention swivels to something behind me, a muscle jumping in his jaw. I turn, see Bren sitting in her Lexus, waiting for us to finish, ready to take me home.
Makes my throat close up tight.
“Pretty car.” Carson’s not looking at me, but I can hear the smile in his voice. “Think she’ll be able to hold on to it after everything that’s happened?”
No. Yes. Of course.
I stand. “Bren was always the brains behind their company. She’ll make it work.”
“Won’t work if everyone keeps shunning her. Your new family is so interesting to me. Like, you ever wonder how she got your adoption papers to go through so fast? ’Cause I do. I think that’s very interesting and I really wonder what would happen if I did some digging? Think I’d find anything that would make her look even worse?”
I try to swallow. Can’t. There’s no way he’d find anything on Bren . . . right?
“You can’t save everyone you love, Trash. Doesn’t work like that. In fact, I can make sure it doesn’t work like that. Find out everything you can on Bay or I’ll destroy you and make sure Bren gets the blame. Think how that would go: First she didn’t recognize her husband was a monster; now her adopted kid is breaking the law. Bet they’d take your sister away from her.”
I bet they would. I look at Carson, and, in the swirling blue lights, his grin grows monstrous. It pushes chills up my arms.
“Leave her alone,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
4
Bren and I drive home in silence . . . or in silence as only Bren can do. She keeps tapping the steering wheel with her fingers, jiggling her left knee. She’s vibrating, and I’m afraid to say anything in case it makes her spin apart.
“It’s so horrible,” Bren says at last. She smoothes one hand against her pink skirt, forcing it to flatten. “Bay’s a good man.”
I snort. Can’t help it.
“He is.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it.” And I will because, suddenly, I’m not in Bren’s car. I’m standing over my mother as she cried. Bay was never good to her. The man’s an ass, but if Bren thinks he’s . . . wait a minute.
“Bren,” I say, and have to push each word from my tongue. “How did you manage to adopt us so quickly?”
A pause. “Bay helped.”
“Why would he help us?”
“I . . . paid him. It was worth every penny.”
I focus on the houses beyond the window so I don’t have to see how Bren’s watching me. She’s waiting for a reaction and I only have this: Carson will find out.
And Bren will suffer.
My skin goes cold, clammy. “That doesn’t make him good.”
“It does for me.” Bren turns the car onto our street, knee jiggling harder. “I’ll get an appointment with your therapist tomorrow, and we’ll pick up a notebook so you can catalog everything you’re feeling.”
Yay! Feelings! I concentrate on picking at my battered wig so I don’t groan. Bren’s a big believer in therapy—especially after the Todd situation.
“There are some very good books out there on dealing with post-traumatic stress,” she continues. “I’ll get a reading list from Dr. Norcut.”
There’s a beat of silence and I can’t tell whether Bren’s paused for my response or just trying to catch her breath. I think she’s going for reassuring, but her list sounds more like a plan of attack.
“I’m okay, Bren. Truly.” I fork one hand through my hair, rub my right temple, where my migraines usually start. “I don’t have PTSD or whatever.”
“You don’t know that.” We maneuver around the babysitter’s Honda and park in the garage. Bren shuts off the car and touches her fingertips to my cheek, searching my face for any signs I’m about to freak.
I smile like I’m fine, like the corner of the DVD isn’t digging into me.
My mom. My. Mom. It’s a heartbeat in my ears.
“What if this starts to bring back . . . everything else?” Bren asks softly.
“It won’t.”
“Wick, you’ve been doing so well. I think this could really set you off, and after everything that happened to you and everything you’re still dealing with, we need to be prepared.”