“How do I know this is the real deal?” I ask. “You played me before, remember? You were supposed to be the therapist and I was supposed to be the patient?”
“Is it really so hard to believe? Young hackers are in the news all the time. They have to go somewhere when they’re picked up. Sometimes it’s here. Sometimes it’s not. I know we’re not starting on the right foot here, Wick, so I’d like to offer you a bit of truth to make things right. I knew who you were—or should I say what you were?—the moment you walked into my office a year ago.”
We stare at each other. I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t—“Oh yeah? How’s that?”
“Because I worked with your father.”
I swallow, swallow again. “Where?”
“Here. It was a few months before your mother’s suicide. He was one of our first employees and probably our greatest failure. You have so much more to offer, Wick. It’s just a matter of giving you the opportunities . . . and the right guidance.”
“What happens after that?”
“It’s different for everyone, but ideally, you take a position with one of our clients. Looking Glass is a full-service technology firm. We do everything from product testing to denial-of-service attacks. In exchange for your expertise, you will build a formidable résumé by working with some of the best in the business—a résumé we are always happy to pass on to our clients when you’re ready to take a full-time position.”
Norcut tilts back, considering me. “It’s perfectly understandable for you to still be suspicious. But do you really think Bren would have sent you anywhere that’s less than superb? This is Bren we’re discussing.” Her lips twist in a little half smile, a wordless joke shared between two people who know Bren keeps Norcut on speed-dial “just in case.”
“I know you want to go home, Wick, but what’s waiting for you there? Is that really your future?”
“I love them. I want to be with my mom and sister.”
A muscle in Norcut’s cheek spasms. She caught how I called Bren my mom. No matter how smoothly I say it, the word sticks on my tongue. Not surprising. When your biological mother is murdered and your adoptive mother is afraid of you, “mom” is a complicated thing.
“You know, Wick, Bren says you’re prone to shaking, panic attacks, and have severe intimacy issues.” Norcut pauses, waiting for me to agree, and when I don’t, she soldiers on. “I don’t think you have any of those issues. You suffer from them, but not like other people suffer from them. Your anxiety is supposed to stem from stress, but you’re under stress now, Wick, and look at you. You’re not rattled at all.”
My sweaty palms beg to differ. I keep my hands clasped tight between my knees to stop them from shaking, but it’s funny because now . . . suddenly . . . I realize they’re not shaking at all. Have I used up all my fear?
Did I leave it in the woods with Ian Bay when he tried to kill me? Or was it later, when Carson said “they” were coming for me? Or was it when Hart arrived?
I push myself a little straighter as something that might be dread wraps around my bones. Only, is it dread? Because it feels like truth.
Norcut and I have never talked like this before, but there’s something so true, so honest . . . so right about what she’s saying that, for an instant, it’s lightning in the dark. I see a flash of myself, who I really am now, and I’m not sure I recognize her.
“You weren’t scarred by chasing down Todd.” Norcut tilts her head and a tendril of blond hair loosens from her slicked-down bun, brushes against the side of her neck. It makes her look soft. “I seriously doubt you’re that damaged from what you did. You’re broken, yes. But it’s nothing that can’t be healed.”
I swallow. “Not ‘scarred’? The night terrors kind of paint a different picture.”
“Wick.” Norcut leans forward and I get a whiff of perfume—roses and musk. It clogs my nose like it’s going to burrow into my brain. “Out there, no one understands you. They think you’re dangerous because computers and coding and viruses are magic they don’t understand, but you do. That doesn’t make you dangerous. That makes you special. Aren’t you tired of feeling like you don’t belong?”
I take so long to answer, Norcut should accuse me of stonewalling her. After all, that’s happened before. I was never her favorite client, and honestly, the feeling was pretty mutual, but this . . . we’ve never ever talked about anything like this before.
Maybe we should have. I would have liked her more.
“What are you offering me?” I ask, careful not to lean forward too, because I can feel how much I want the answer she’s going to give me and it scares me.
“I’m offering you the chance to fit in, to finally be safe. But most of all, I’m offering you the opportunity to belong to something. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? For once, Wicket, be honest. What would happen if you were on the inside instead of always sitting on the outside and wishing it were different?”