I close my eyes, take a breath, and when I open them, Griff is watching me like he already knows what I’m going to ask and he’s dreading it. “What if someone wanted us to find this? Why would someone want us to know?”
“I have no idea.” Griff sighs. “All the information here? It’s really confidential stuff. You don’t just download it by accident and you damn sure don’t hide it in an abandoned garage.”
“Unless you’re leaving it as a present—a really specific present because it’s filled with stuff I could use to take down Looking Glass. Hart gave me my mom’s interview videos because they wanted to see how I would react, what I would do with the information. Is this the same deal?”
“Maybe it’s a plant. If you use this information, they’d know how you were coming, how you were going to hit them.” Griff stops, shakes his head. “No. They’d also have to know you’re here. Carson would’ve had to tell them and he sounded seriously scared when he talked about Looking Glass.”
It’s a good point. Before he skipped town, Carson told me there were people who were worse than he was coming for me, but . . . “He’s a really good liar,” I say at last. “It’s not much of a stretch to think he could pretend. Maybe he really does want to help us. They definitely burned him. But why catch me here? It’s not like they don’t know where I live.” I summon a smile even as cold sweat leaks between my shoulder blades. “If you’re going to kill someone, Griff, you don’t do it where everyone can see you. You kill them in the dark.”
Or you make them jump off buildings.
Or you have your father slide a shiv into their side.
Griff pockets the phone and looks at me. “If he did tell them, they’re waiting.”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
I pivot toward the kitchen and Griff catches my wrist. He winces, but doesn’t let go, holding me softly like he’s afraid I’ll bite . . . or break.
“Me first,” Griff whispers.
“You always want to go first.” It’s meant as a joke, but my timing (as usual) sucks because now we’re both thinking of how we chased Todd through the dark to save Lily. Griff leans into me, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead, and then eases us into the kitchen, spends a few moments staring through the window above the sink.
The yard looks the same as it did before. No matter how hard I hunt the tangled woods at the dead grass’s edge, I don’t see anyone. We’re still alone.
“Stay here, okay?”
He’s gone before I can agree, disappearing into the front of the house. I lean against the countertop, both arms folded against me, and listen to his soft footfalls. He’s in the dining room. Should be able to see—
Tap . . . tap . . . scraaaatttccchhhh.
I freeze, listening. That’s not Griff, but it’s not rats either. The sound’s faint, easily buried under whispers, but now, in the silence . . .
Tap . . . tap . . . scraaaatttccchhhh.
I hold my breath and force myself around. Griff’s standing in the kitchen doorway and his eyes are huge. He heard it too.
Did she find my present?
“Anyone out front?” I whisper.
He shakes his head and we both pause, listen.
Tap . . . tap . . . scraaaatttccchhhh.
“Then what’s that?” I point to my left, not really because the noise is coming from the left, more because I’m scared and I need to do something and yet . . . wait a minute. “Griff,” I say. “When you checked the kitchen, did you open the hatch in the pantry?”
He stares at me.
Oh God. This cannot be happening.
I cross the kitchen and nudge open the pantry door. The pantry itself is empty, but there’s a four-foot-high panel by my feet and a pretty big space behind the panel. I think it was originally supposed to house the water heater or something, but Michael walled it in, used it to store stuff occasionally.
Lily and I used to hide there, which was pretty stupid because he always knew where to find us.
I’m sweating and shaking now. I kneel, work slippery fingers around the edge. The panel falls away too easily, and suddenly, I’m staring at him.
Carson’s smile is a smear of blood. “Hello, Wick.”
38
Carson’s crammed into the space, knees tucked under his cheek, left arm lying in a horrible angle at his side. It’s useless.
No. Not entirely useless.
Tap . . . tap . . . scraaaatttccchhhh.
Carson’s patting and then dragging the top of his class ring against an exposed pipe. That’s what we were hearing.
“We need to call nine-one-one,” I whisper, and yet I’m not moving. Can’t.
“Concerned for me now?” That horrible red smile widens, but each word is labored.
“Griff, please!” I can’t look away and Carson chuckles like he knows.
“You feel guilty for what you did to me yet?” he asks.
I swallow. “You mean planting the explosives? You had it coming.”
“Does that make it right?” Carson inhales. The breath rattles and I cringe. “You’re not the one who got branded.”