“Miss?” the officer asks. “Was your father right? It was a hit-and-run?”
I look at the officers, lower my chin, and wobble my lower lip until I look like Tragedy Girl just trying to be brave.
“Absolutely,” I say. “He’s right. They came out of nowhere.”
4
We leave our first driver to wait for the tow truck and take the second town car. The interior is exactly like the first, right down to the cup holders and the leathery smell.
“How many of these things do you have?” I ask, buckling the seat belt.
“Enough.”
We pull away from the curb. Second Driver has a lighter foot than First Driver. I’m grateful. Between the smack to the head and getting yanked around, nausea is rolling up from my stomach.
“Shouldn’t there have been more paperwork?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the police cruiser as we drive past.
“Don’t worry. It’s all taken care of.”
I flick my attention to Hart, searching for anything under his tone and finding . . . nothing. He’s completely unconcerned.
“I appreciate what you did back there,” Hart continues after checking the glass screen that divides us from the front seat. Once he’s certain the driver can’t hear us, he settles, adjusting and readjusting his jacket. “I’m glad to know you understand what we’re up against.”
“Honestly?” The word’s awkward in my mouth, like it’s made of only edges and corners. “I’m not sure that I do understand. Carson said that people would be looking for me and he’d been . . . protecting me or whatever.”
“He was. It was a mistake of course. Detective Carson—with all due respect—didn’t have the ability to protect you like we can.” Hart pauses, staring into space and probably reflecting on the fact that Carson never got me rammed by an SUV.
“Do you know where Carson is?” he asks at last. “Where we could find him?”
“No.”
“And you have no clues as to where he might be?”
I hesitate and I can’t tell whether it’s out of habit . . . or because I’m still not entirely on board with Hart. The safest thing to say here would be something along the lines of I have no idea and No, Carson never said anything about where he might hide.
It’s also the truth.
But if they’ve been watching me, Hart might already know I went to Carson’s house the night he disappeared two months ago. If it’s a test . . . “I did see him—that last night, when they caught Ian Bay and his half brother. Carson was freaked. He kept saying people were after him.”
Technically, Carson also said people were after me. Looks like he was right.
“He said something about the ATF finding explosives?” I screw up my face to look like a suitably confused teenage girl even though I’m not. I’m actually sort of, kind of at fault here, because around the same time Carson blackmailed me into working for him, I met Milo—a supergenius inventor who enjoys computers, spy equipment, explosives . . .
And me.
Sometimes it feels like we were made for each other. The whole thing started when I did Milo a favor and he repaid me by framing Carson as a terrorist. Which he wasn’t, but when the ATF searched his storage unit they found evidence that Carson wasn’t the honest, upright cop he was pretending to be, and just like that, I was free.
Or I was for a little while.
I don’t bother elaborating even though I can tell Hart’s waiting for it. There’s no way they know about Milo.
And there’s no way he’s in danger because Milo’s too careful. Not to mention, sniffing around his place is dangerous. Like can-get-you-blown-to-kingdom-come dangerous.
I rub both palms against my knees. “What do you want with Carson?”
“We have our reasons.” Hart’s gaze travels over my face, my body, and snags on my hands. “Tell me about Griff.”
The name is like a blow: fast, hard, and leaves me breathless. William Reed Griffin. Goes by Griff. Only.
Always.
I can’t tell Hart how it was my fault. Carson was going to use him, ruin him actually. So I took Griff’s place. I let Carson use me because I thought that would fix everything. It saved Griff, but it ruined our relationship. We haven’t spoken in almost two months now—something I probably shouldn’t be so acutely aware of since I’ve been dating Milo for almost as long.
“I don’t have anything to say,” I manage at last.
“Liar.”
It should be an accusation, but Hart’s smiling—almost laughing.
“There’s lots to tell about Griffin,” he continues and his smile is slippery, widening every time he says Griff’s name. “I know there’s more. You know there’s more. We haven’t been able to get a good read on him, but others could. Others will. As far as we can tell, the only time Griffin shows is when you’re around. You disappear? He disappears. Makes me think you’re the corrupting influence.”
Probably.
Hart’s gaze latches on my face. “Or that he wants to save you.”