No, that’s not quite right; something’s whistling. The window. From this side of the house, I’m facing the backyard now and there’s a breeze squeezing in from outside. I brush my hands off and check the sill. Sure enough, there’s a hole in one corner of the glass pane, just large enough to fit my thumb into. The wind sweeps higher, a reedy whine that instinctively makes me jam one finger in the hole.
The screech stops. If I rented this place that would be the first thing I’d fix. And that’s when I realize the window’s not just loose. It’s open.
I curl my finger and lift; the frame follows me easily. Soundlessly. Warm spring air pours into the room. I take a deep breath . . . hold it, eyes traveling past the grass-pocked backyard.
You know, between the shielded yard and the open window, someone could slip in and out of here with very little notice. If you wanted to hide something . . . if you wanted to hide . . . chills scatter across my skin.
I cock my head, listening. I’m not the only thing breathing in here.
Slowly—too slowly—I turn. The bedroom’s empty, but the closed closet to my right? I watch it, wait, and the silence stretches. Everything’s exactly as it should be, but this doesn’t feel right. I retreat one step and then another, my hand extending behind me, groping for the door.
Another exhale. It is coming from the closet. I didn’t imagine it.
I’m not alone.
“Who’s—”
Something heavy drops behind me. The breathing wasn’t coming from the closet. It was coming from above.
One arm snakes around my waist; a hand covers my mouth—and presses down.
No gloves this time.
I pry my teeth apart to bite him and there’s a hiss in my ear.
“It’s me.”
I register the words the same time I register the smell: grass and the faintest scent of gasoline.
It’s Griff.
17
He releases me and I spin around, face him. For three whole seconds, I stare . . . he stares . . . and then Griff swallows, eyes still speared to me. I take a step forward. He takes a step back. We both stop.
“How did you find me?” I breathe and he retreats again.
“Wicked . . .”
The nickname forks lightning across my skin and I shiver. He looks rough. Griff’s always been thin, wiry, but there’s a hardness to his muscles now. There are smudges under his eyes and his T-shirt is worn through in two places, revealing slivers of skin across his lower abs.
“He’s out,” Griff whispers, the words escaping on a hard exhale. “Michael.”
“I know.”
“He’s still here. He’s close.”
“I know.”
Griff shifts from foot to foot. Is he hesitating to come closer? Or is he holding himself back? “Your handle popped up. I know you’re working. What’s going on?”
“It’s complicated.” I swallow. “What are you doing here? Are you sending me those viruses?”
Griff’s face screws up in confusion. “What?”
“Wick?”
Blood thumps in my temples. Milo.
“Wick?”
Closer now. Oh shit, he’s headed this way. I whip toward Griff.
“I’m sorry, Wicked. For everything.”
I blink. There’s white all around Griff’s eyes now, but he doesn’t look away from me and I can’t look away from him. If he doesn’t go, they’ll catch him. They’ll know there’s more to him than just a guy I was dating. Milo’s sneakers scuff closer and I wave one hand toward the closet.
“Go,” I snarl under my breath.
Another beat of hesitation and Griff steps to the side, disappearing into the closet. There’s a faint thump—his sneakers hitting the wall?—and then nothing.
Until Milo swings through the bedroom door.
“Hey, are you okay?” Milo saunters in, gaze catching on the window, on the closet. Does it linger? No. No, he’s looking at the open attic door above my head now. “Anything up there?” he asks.
Not anymore. I shake my head. “I pulled the door down just to look.”
We both stare into the darkened opening. The ladder’s still pulled up, no sign that Griff was ever there. I shrug, glance at Milo, and realize he’s studying me.
“You okay?” he asks again.
“Yeah, fine. Look what I found.” I nudge my chin toward the sleeping bag and Milo’s eyes go bright. He pulls the sleeping bag apart again and checks the PowerBar box.
“Whoever it is, they’re planning on returning.”
“Unless we were spotted coming inside.”
“True.” Milo scowls, and somehow it makes him look prettier. His attention drifts past me to the closet. He stands and his hands flex once. “Did you check in there?”
“Yes, it’s empty. Let’s go.”
“You’re sure?”
I force a cocky smile, but my chest stays two sizes too small and my fingers still ache for a boy that isn’t mine. “What’s the opposite of full?”
“Empty.”
“Then, yeah, I’m sure.” Okay, that’s probably closer to bitchy than cocky but I can’t seem to stop. Griff is hiding in the closet, I’m no closer to finding Michael, and my phone call to Lily is slipping away. “This place is worse than I remember,” I add, concentrating on rerolling the sleeping bag for the second time.
“No joke.” Milo grins. “I can’t believe you lived around here.”