“Wick?” Bren’s voice floats up from downstairs. “Breakfast is ready!”
“Coming!” I stick my hand behind my headboard, feel my jump drive pinned to the wall and the DVD taped just below it. Relief rushes through me. Not like they would’ve gone anywhere since last night. It’s reassuring to touch them though. Turning off the lights I left burning all night, I get dressed, and by the time I hit the stairs, my hands have almost stopped shaking.
In the kitchen, my little sister and Bren are making breakfast. The whole lower floor smells like waffles and cinnamon.
“Wick!” Lily rockets off the bar stool, a blur of pale blond hair and bright pink T-shirt. She hugs me hard. “Mom told me what happened.”
Mom? I stare. Lily’s talking about . . . Bren?
“Yeah, it was pretty awful,” I say, ignoring how Bren is now watching me, dissecting my words for emotional cracks Norcut would need to medicate. I think about smiling at her and then think again because I have no idea how that would be interpreted.
Besides, when did we start calling Bren Mom? This feels huge, but I sit down like I barely noticed, digging into the scrambled eggs Bren sticks in front of me so I don’t have to face either of them.
If Bren is now our mom, where does that leave our real mom? Do I tell Lily about the DVD?
My first instinct was to show her. Now I wonder if I should. It’s been four years since our mom jumped. Bren is more her mother than our mother ever was. Maybe Griff’s right. The DVD said: See what they did to her? Well, yeah, I see it. Doesn’t change anything. Maybe I should leave it alone.
I don’t know if I can.
“Did you take your meds?” Bren asks me, sliding another waffle onto Lily’s plate.
“Yep.”
She beams and I have to fight a smile. I kind of hate that Bren sets the bar so low. Then again, it’s nice to be able to make someone so happy. These days, Bren thinks it’s a whole new me: no migraines (meds), new hair (blond), and fancy car (gift).
Bren pours more waffle batter into the iron. “I spoke to Dr. Norcut’s office. You have an appointment for Monday morning—before school—so it won’t interfere with anything.”
Whoopee for me. “That’s great. Thanks.”
Bren double-checks the timer on the waffle iron. “What do you have planned for the day, Wick?”
“Government project I need to finish. I have to go down to the courthouse to take notes during some of the trials and put it in a report.”
Which is a convenient excuse to get a closer look at Bay. He’s supposed to be working today. Thanks to government cutbacks and overloaded dockets, the court system runs Saturday court once a month. Bay should be putting in a full load today. After last night, I’m not sure if he will be. Hopefully, I’ll get lucky.
Bren’s spatula hovers above the waffle maker. “Like at the courthouse with the criminals? Is that safe?”
I smile. Sometimes it’s touching how much Bren worries. Other times, I wonder if she thinks I’m an idiot who will wander into the first panel van marked “Free Candy.” “I’ll be fine, Bren. If anyone kidnapped me, they would return me. Promise.”
I’m shooting for a laugh. Bren just stares me down.
I sigh. “It’s a project the juniors do every year. I’ll call you when I’m leaving.”
Bren’s face creases into a smile and she looks at me like I’ve just done the most amazing trick. “Okay, just be careful, Wick.”
“Always.”
The Peachtree City Courthouse shares the same low-slung building as the library. I park by the long-dead fountain and wait in line to get through security—security pretty much being a metal detector and a single overweight cop sitting on a plastic chair, his thumbs jammed into his straining belt.
“Purpose?” Body by Budweiser asks me.
“Research for school.” I hold up my laptop and he passes it through the scanner. No bombs. How very unsurprising. Triple B gives me back my computer without a second glance. It always amazes me that no one realizes I don’t need a bomb to do damage. Whatever though. Makes my life easier.
According to the online schedule, Bay should be in the first courtroom, and just as I push through the courtroom doors, he’s taking the bench. Considering what happened last night, he looks pretty good—hair’s helmeted into place with gel; his eyes snap around the room like he’s ready to get started.
Or like he’s looking for someone.
It’s just past nine a.m. and I have my pick of seats. I head toward the front, staying near the wall so I’m close to Bay, but far enough that I have some privacy. Very few people notice me—probably because I blend better now than I did in my previous life. If I had known Ralph Lauren clothes were an excellent cover, I would’ve used them.