Griff scoots lower in his seat, passing one hand over his jaw. It’s the same T-shirt, same scruff, but he looks . . . strained. Exhausted.
I tell myself it has to be the lighting.
His attention dips, and briefly, I’m confused; then he lifts a pad of paper. There are a few lines scribbled across the page:
I only have a few minutes. This was the safest way to talk I could think of.
I nod and immediately feel stupid. He can’t see me, but I agree with him. Video feeds aren’t as easily monitored as calls. This is smart for both of us. Griff flips the pad again and dashes off a few more lines:
Michael’s looking for something. Rumor says it’s money.
I tense. That . . . doesn’t make any sense. Why would Michael be looking for money? He already has the eleven million he stole from Looking Glass.
Doesn’t he?
Griff’s eyes track over and over the screen. I want to call him, but even if I could, I’m not sure I could find my voice. I feel suddenly buried.
He turns the pad, tears off the top page, and scrawls another line:
Rumor also says you stole it from him.
Stole it? I slump forward. I didn’t even know about it until this week. And furthermore, rumor from who? Rumor from around the neighborhood? From one of Michael’s guys? The first doesn’t worry me. The second does. A lot.
Griff waits, studying the screen before flipping the pad around once again. This time, he takes a little longer, hesitates before turning it to me.
That means he’s looking for you.
My heart stutters and I have to force myself to breathe. Breathe again. It’s fine. It is. I knew Michael was looking for me. Aside from the searching-for-money thing, Griff isn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know.
Too bad no matter how many times I repeat this to myself, my stomach is still sloshing around my feet. Michael thinks I stole money from him? This is bad. This is very, very bad.
Griff’s eyes return to the top of the screen, lingering. He flips the pad around, jots another line, and holds it up:
I hope you’re safe.
“I hope you’re safe too,” I whisper, and once again, my fingers itch to dial his cell, to take the risk. I could stuff towels underneath the door and crank the shower full blast. Maybe I could get away with it. I want to ask him about the viruses again, see if he has any idea who would be trying to warn me.
Griff turns the pad to him and makes a quick slash across it, then turns it to me:
I wish I’d told you how much I miss you.
He hesitates again, opening his mouth like there’s something else to say, and I lean toward the screen because I’m ready for it, but he shakes his head once. Twice. He grabs the top of his laptop and closes it. My screen goes black and he’s gone.
21
The smart thing to do would be to go to bed, but even if I did, it’s not like I’m going to sleep. I push to my feet, and once I’m standing, all I can feel is how my legs are shaking.
I clear the phone’s history and unlock the bathroom door, grab my Chucks from the floor, and toss the cell onto Alex’s bed.
She catches it. “Where are you going?”
“To work. You want to follow me there too?”
“Nah.” Alex settles deeper into bed. She’s just a shadow now. “If you’re going to work for them, I don’t need to see it.”
She pitches the cell at me and I have to put up both hands to avoid being clipped in the face.
“Keep it,” Alex says. “You know you want to.”
“Not enough to risk getting caught.”
“Who’s going to tell?”
I can’t bring myself to say she would, but my silence does it for me.
Alex’s laugh is smoke in the dark. “Call your sister. It’ll only prove me right. I dare you.”
I jam the cell into the waistband of my jeans and pad down the hall, stuff my feet into my shoes as I wait for the elevator. Upstairs, the workstations are under low lights, but Kent’s still working away, one hand on his keyboard and the other wrapped around a plastic Big Gulp. A gift from Hart? I would’ve thought Kent’s standards would be higher.
“What’re you doing?” he asks around a mouthful of crushed ice.
I shrug. “What’re you doing?”
“I have important things going on.”
“Yeah. Clearly.” I drop into my seat, rub the back of my neck as I wait for my computer to boot. As promised, the video file is in my email, and at first I’m slightly confused because there should be more files—different angles from different cameras—and then I realize everything’s been edited into one clip.
There’s my dad emerging from some holding cell . . . another few seconds of him coming down one hallway . . . and then another hallway . . . and then to a processing area. There’s a desk and some guy manning the desk.
Michael waits as they go through his paperwork. From this angle, I can really see him. He’s dropped weight and there’s a smudge of darkness near his collar. A new tattoo?