He turns to me. “I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you for standing up. You did an ugly thing—the right thing is often ugly, and that’s what makes it so hard for most people to recognize it.”
We stare at each other. I want to tell Hart that’s not really an answer to my question, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Call it ugly. Call it the truth. Call it whatever. I’m getting less and less impressed with labels. The only time they matter is when you’re figuring out the person who’s using them.
“You can’t tell anyone what a gift you gave to the world,” Hart continues, watching me. “But I’m bringing you somewhere you can tell people—because we understand.”
“I thought you were bringing me somewhere to keep me safe, not egg me on.”
Hart’s smile is thin, faint. Bitter. “Don’t kid yourself, Wick. These people saw you. They see you. You are now known. You looked into the dark and it looked back. I know you know this.”
I do.
“Why do you want me?” I ask.
“Looking Glass specializes in internet securities, virus removal—you’re good at that, aren’t you?”
Slowly, I nod.
“Please trust that I can help you,” he says.
“No one ever says ‘please’ to me.” Not entirely true. Griff does. Or he did once upon a time when we were together and I was pretending to be someone I’m not. I look at Hart and tell myself I don’t care about how Griff is past tense, how Milo is probably long gone, and how my entire life as I knew it no longer exists.
Too bad I’m not that good a liar.
Hart sighs. “Yeah, I know. It hasn’t been easy for you, but things can be different if you let us help you.”
I hesitate. Hart seems so . . . sincere. I don’t know what to do with that or the fact that I want to believe him. I pick gravel from my palms instead as the sirens grow closer.
“Boss?” The driver appears at the side of our car. He’s holding his neck like it hurts and his eyes are wide. “Someone’s reported the accident. They’re maybe five minutes away.”
“‘They’?” I ask.
“The police,” Hart says, and nods to the driver, who disappears around the front of the town car. “We have scanners in all the vehicles.” He digs into his coat pocket, pulls out a packet of wet wipes, and hands them to me.
Guns and hand sanitizer? There’s a joke about Boy Scouts and always being prepared somewhere in there, but my brain’s too scrambled to connect it.
“I don’t think I want to ask why you carry wet wipes around with you,” I say.
“You’re probably right, but unless you want a trip to the ER for that scratch on your head, I’d suggest you wipe off your face and take down your hair to cover that cut. We have doctors at the office. It’s safer for you to be examined there.”
It’s not a bad point, but I still take the packet a bit reluctantly. Hart isn’t what I thought. He’s . . . I don’t know. Probably best not to think about it. Besides, anything’s better than being sticky so I spend a moment cleaning off my face and hands, barely noticing how the cuts sting.
“Ready?” Hart asks, straightening his clothes.
I nod, eyes pinned to another black town car approaching us. It pulls to the curb just as a police cruiser rounds the corner and heads straight for us. Another black-suited driver opens the door to the second town car. He leans against the frame, watching us and waiting.
“Don’t say anything,” Hart says as the police officer approaches. The car stops, lights still rolling. “Just let me handle it.”
“Gladly,” I say and hang behind. Hart and the driver talk to the officer, who in turn calls in another cop and a tow truck. There’s a lot of gesturing: hands waving around, hands resting on belts, hands slapping shoulders . . . until one of the officers finally notices me. He nudges the first guy and they both wave me closer.
“Miss? Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Absolutely.”
“Your father says it was a hit-and-run.” The officer’s eyes slide back and forth between us. Cataloging all the flaws in calling Hart my father? We look nothing alike, but I guess we could be related . . . if Hart knocked up my mom in his very early twenties. Still, the officer doesn’t comment.
Because he really hasn’t noticed?
Or because Hart lied so confidently it made everything feel like the truth?
“Is that true?” the officer asks.
Hart’s gaze meets mine. His smile hasn’t moved, but there’s something in the way his shoulders have stiffened that reveals his worry. He doesn’t think I’ll go along with his story. He doesn’t trust me even though he’s asked me to trust him.
Trust me, he said. We’re the good guys, he said.
I saved you, he didn’t say, but it’s still true.
At Bren’s when Hart said he was one of the good guys, I’d wanted to laugh. This whole thing seems so impossible. There are no good guys, no such thing as heroes. I know this.
Then again, considering my previous track record of not recognizing a good thing when I had it . . . maybe . . . maybe?