Trust Me (Find Me, #3)

I open my mouth . . . close it. Bottom line, everything started when Hart brought me those videos and now he’s finishing it. If I go with him, I don’t know what will be waiting for me and that’s terrifying.

But telling Bren the truth? That’s worse. Even if she didn’t haul me straight to the police, she’d hate me. I’d trade the truth of what I did for my hope that she’ll let me come home. If Bren doesn’t know and I play Hart’s game . . . maybe I could come back? Maybe we could be together again. I could be with my sister, my friends.

“I’ll visit you soon,” Bren whispers and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I have to fight not to lean into her. If I do, I’ll fall apart. “I didn’t keep you safe enough before. I’m making up for it now.”

“It wasn’t your fault—”

She leans close, touches her forehead to mine. “Letting him take you is going to kill me. That’s how I know how lucky I am—because I’m losing so much right now.”

“Mrs. Callaway?” Hart’s trying for polite and failing. His smile is gritted. “We really need to go.”

Bren nods and follows us to the front door. She opens it, and briefly I’m blinded by sunshine. It’s a beautiful day. The neighbors are out; one of them waves to Bren, but she doesn’t notice.

Hart’s hand goes to my shoulder. Like we’re good buddies. Like this is fun and I can’t feel the way his fingers tighten.

I swallow and my throat click-clicks. We’re off the porch now. In the open. Panic flares in my chest. If I ran, could he catch me?

I slide him a sideways glance. Hart’s considerably taller than I am. He looks fit too. If I ran, he would catch me.

And if he didn’t catch me, where would I go?

My entire life is tied up in the computer in my bedroom—my viruses, my customers, my bank accounts. How freaking ironic. I’ve prepared and prepared for the day I’d have to disappear, and now?

My hands roll into fists.

“Promise me, Wick,” Bren whispers.

“I prom—” Hart jerks me forward, steering me down the sidewalk. There’s a town car waiting at the curb and beyond the town car . . . there’s a dark gray Ford headed my way.

Milo. Panic makes me stumble. Our date. We were supposed to meet and now—oh, God. Milo.

His car coasts closer and the hum in my ears grinds into a roar. I want to scream for him to gun it. To run.

But then Hart will know there are others and he’ll come for Milo too.

I force my eyes forward, focus on the house across the street, and one second . . . two seconds . . . Milo’s car rolls into my line of vision. I watch him.

He pretends to watch the road.

Our eyes only meet once.

Once is enough. Milo drives on, dragging something from me as he passes. It limps behind his car and makes a left at the corner to follow him.

“Is everything okay, Wick?” Hart asks. He’s watching me so closely. Did he see? Does he know? He isn’t saying anything. What does that mean?

A driver in dark shades pops out of the car, takes my bag, and tosses it in the trunk.

“Nice ride,” I say as Hart opens the rear door for me, our reflections stunted in the glass. “But I thought kidnappers preferred panel vans?”

Hart laughs. It’s a buttery sound like something that belongs to talk show hosts and sitcom dads. “Smile, Wick. This is going to be fun.”





2


It’s all so spy-mystery novel, I feel like I should be blindfolded or something. But Hart doesn’t move to touch me. He sits next to me, concentrating on his iPhone—scrolling through email from the looks of it and leaving me to watch the scenery pass.

Or rather, pretend to watch the scenery pass.

The only thing I can concentrate on now is Milo’s face, that twitch in his expression when he realized I’d been caught.

And how we both knew we were over.

In some ways, there are advantages to dating someone like Milo: He knows this stuff as well as I do. We are the same and we know how this goes. The fact that he drove on should not hurt. It does not hurt. One of us was always bound to be caught.

But no matter how many times I repeat this, it still feels like I’m mumbling through a mouthful of glass.

I start to count road signs. We’re heading north toward Atlanta, the driver weaving in and out of traffic. I can’t see anything through the tinted glass partition, but I’d have to guess we’re doing seventy—maybe eighty. Every time he switches lanes, my breath catches.

“Are we going to the airport?” I ask as the car hurtles toward the interstate turnoff.

Hart looks up. “No. We’re going to midtown actually. We share a building with a few other companies.”

“Is that where I’ll be staying?”

“Precisely.” Hart pockets his phone and tugs a set of manila folders from the briefcase between us. After flipping through the pages, he pauses, finger pressed against something I can’t see.

“Tell me about Joe Bender,” he says at last.

“He worked for Michael.”

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