Carson’s eyes flicker. “Friends?”
“Not really.” I’m being honest again, but even as I say it, I feel like I’m lying, and that’s stupid. We’re not friends. I don’t think Wick has friends. Wait. No, she does. The pretty, dark-haired cheerleader hangs out with her, but that’s it.
“Do you think you could get close to her?” Carson asks.
I can’t help my laugh. I’ve been trying to get close to Wick for years. She isn’t what I’d call approachable. Actually, the girl looks like a pissed-off pixie—not saying that’s a bad look. It sort of suits her or whatever.
“Maybe,” I say, eyes dropping to the picture again. I’ve never seen Wick smile like that. It feels wrong that it’s in here.
“This many years in the force,” Carson continues, a touch of southern drawl curving the ends of his words, “you get a kind of . . . sixth sense for people. That girl is trouble. There’s something wrong with her. Bad. She needs to be taken out before she pollutes other people. Whatever you find—on her, on her dad, on Bender—I’d pay you for it.”
“How much?”
“Depends on what you bring me. We’ll start with two hundred.”
I focus on Wick so Carson can’t see my interest. Two hundred? That would keep the phone on and buy groceries and . . . and I would have to bring someone down to hoist myself up. Can I do that? Nah, that’s the wrong question. I can do it, but I don’t want to be the kind of guy who would. Plus, it’s Wick, and the reminder makes my chest go tight again.
“If everybody knows I’m working for Bender and Tate and then they get arrested and I’m walking around free, how’s that supposed to look?” I ask.
Another lipless smile from the detective. “You mean, how are you supposed to avoid looking like a narc?”
“I’d never let that happen.” Ben jerks forward. In the tiny office, he’s practically on top of me now. “We’ll keep you out of it. I promise. We promise.”
Carson’s eyes return to me. “More you bring me,” he continues, voice so quiet it’s like we’re sharing secrets, “the more I’ll pay you. Get me proof Bender and the Tates are spearheading that scam and it won’t matter if your mom refuses to get out of bed.”
I stiffen. It should be the wrong thing to say and it isn’t. If my mom can’t take care of herself, I’ll have to do it. I’ll have to save us both, and I can’t do that by mowing lawns or repairing motorcycles.
I turn the picture over and meet the detective’s gaze. “Pay up. I’m in.”
Ben tells me I did a good job and I don’t bother correcting him. I haven’t done anything yet, but my cousin’s walking on the balls of his feet like he’s about to break into a run.
Or a song.
I leave the station with mental notes from Carson and a prepaid smartphone. It even has a data package so I “look like the real deal.”
I manage not to laugh when the detective tells me this, as if hackers can be identified solely by their cells. I should’ve told him there was a secret handshake. He probably would’ve believed me.
Ben and I pile into his cruiser and he takes me home, chattering the whole way about relatives I don’t see and cops I don’t know. By the time he drops me off, it’s totally dark and our trailer is the sole black hole on the block.
“She must have gone out for a bit,” Ben says, studying the windows like this is the most obvious thing in the world and he has no reason to worry about me.
It’s a lie we’re both grateful for.
He shifts the cruiser into reverse as I unbuckle my seat belt. “Probably be home soon though.”
“Yeah,” I say, opening the passenger door. “Thanks for everything.”
“No problem.”
Inside, I don’t check to see if my mom’s gone out, because I know she hasn’t. I crack her bedroom door and sit at our kitchen table, listening to her breathing. It’s soft and steady, staying with me as I scroll through the phone’s features, linking it to my Gmail account and Facebook page, figuring, if Carson’s going to give the cell to me, I might as well use it.
I’ve just loaded my Facebook stuff when I notice Jenna Maxwell’s entry at the top of the News Feed. She’s asking people to pray for Tessa Waye’s family, to see them through in “their dark hour.”
The hell?—I click the link—Oh. Tessa Waye committed suicide. Jumped off some building. Wow. I talked to Tessa just a few days ago. She didn’t look like she was living in a personal hell, although of all people, I should know that’s pretty much the point.
I glance through the comments below Jenna’s post. Most are from their mutual friends, the kind of girls at school who are so beautiful that’s pretty much all you see when you look at them.