My smile feels stapled on. “And you’ll get it.”
“You’re right, because otherwise I’m going to burn you, Wick. Do you understand? I’m not talking about how you broke privacy laws or how you helped run credit scams. I’m talking about premeditated murder. I’m talking about how you took revenge on Alan Bay for refusing to grant your mother those restraining orders. I will give the police everything and then I’ll start on your family.”
Cold trickles into my veins and spreads. “You’ll get your money,” I whisper.
I just have no idea how.
Norcut doesn’t bother telling me to keep my mouth shut—I’m sure she knows she doesn’t have to—and I spend the next two days in a blur, pretending to track down money I have zero idea how to find. Hart never says anything, but the others keep their distance like they’ve been warned, and Milo doesn’t show. It’s probably just as well. I don’t think I could take Alex’s questions or face Milo’s smile. I need time to collect myself, think of a way out.
But the longer I think about killing Alan Bay? The longer I think about having to find the money? The worse I shake. I sit on my bed and rub my sweaty palms against the comforter, trying to decide where to begin. Whoever took the money logged in as me so I should be able to track the outgoing transfer. The date, time, and amount are no problem. The real issue will be getting into the receiving account. That sort of stuff takes time.
Which I don’t have.
The other problem . . . it may be impossible. If the money was transferred from the receiving account, if I can’t find a way in—because, let’s face it, my usual Trojan viruses are not going to work here—if I can’t fix this . . . I take a deep breath. Still feels like there’s a brick behind my heart, but whatever. I have to find a way in.
I rinse my clammy hands in the bathroom, take a thumb drive and notebook from my bedside table, and return to my computer station. I start with the receiving account—another bank in the Caymans—and I’m so absorbed I almost don’t hear the whisper of the glass doors.
Almost.
I’ve kept the overhead lights low and it makes his shadow sweep across my desk. We both pause, and for a very long moment, there’s nothing but our breathing.
“I know, Milo.” I keep everything I am focused on the computer screen, but my hands have gone to my lap. My fingers keep twisting each other. “I know she’s your mom.”
“Yeah. That’s why I came.” Milo pulls a chair close to me. We’re near enough to touch now, but we don’t. “You said once that we were the same,” he says at last. “Do you remember that?”
I turn, force myself to look at him. Milo’s eyes are hazy and far away like he’s pretending to be somewhere else, like he’d rather be anywhere else.
That makes two of us.
“I remember.” We were arguing about whether we should be together. I told him I thought we were dangerous together, that we were too much alike. Milo said that’s why we were perfect for each other.
I said that’s what made it scary. Who was going to be the voice of reason? Or, worse, guilt? I engineered Joe’s murder. Milo destroyed Detective Carson. We both know what it’s like to lash out because it’s our first instinct.
“You were right,” Milo continues, studying his palms. His hands are shaking. “We are the same. We’re the children of criminals. You didn’t realize what you were saying at the time, but you were totally right.”
I turn away, train my eyes on the wide windows. It’s another gorgeous day, but behind the tinted glass and without the overhead lights, we’re sitting in a pocket of shadows.
“You’re simplifying this a bit, don’t you think?” I ask.
“No, not really. We are what we are. I think that made us right for each other—who could understand me better than you? But that’s not what you want. You want to be better. You’re looking for a hero. Hell, you are a hero. I’m not.”
“You saved me.” And in spite of the anger and in spite of the fear, I know this is true. I turn and almost touch him. I curl my hands into fists instead. “Who knows what would’ve happened at Judge Bay’s if you hadn’t rigged that explosion—”
“I didn’t do it to save the others. I did it to save you. I’m not interested in sticking my neck out to save other people. I don’t have that instinct.” His smile is thin and pained and nothing like the boy I know. This isn’t Milo looking at me now. There’s nothing swaggering or cocky or confident. “Considering my genetics, I probably wouldn’t have understood self-sacrifice even if they’d tried to teach it to me.”