emember Me (Find Me, #2) by Romily Bernard
Dedication
For my parents, who read to us every night with voices
1
Somehow I think I always knew I’d get arrested. I just never expected it to happen during Home Ec. From the looks of it, Principal Matthews agrees. His face is ham-pink and shiny. He seems angry until I see the grin.
“Miss Tate?” he says. “Could we have a word?”
Love it when they make an order sound like a request. I mutter apologies to my group partners and grab my messenger bag from under the counter, pulling the strap across my shoulder. I’ve been expecting this moment for almost five months now, and I know I deserve it, but I can’t help one last glance at the open window across the room.
If I ran full out, I could escape.
“Now, Miss Tate.”
Or not.
I walk to the nearest of the two officers and bump up my chin so I can pretend my joints aren’t loosening. The policeman looks me over, scowls. I know what he sees—long, pale blond hair; short, pale blue dress—and what he’s thinking: trash. He might even be right.
Nice girls don’t write computer viruses.
Let alone use them.
The officer takes my bag and, after he glances through it, all of us tromp into the hallway. Just like I always pictured, Detective Carson is waiting. He looks so happy I start to shake.
“Here she is, Detective.” Principal Matthews pats my arm and I have to resist the urge to bite him. “Like I said she’d be.”
“Great.” Carson jerks his head to the left. “Can we use this classroom?”
Classroom? One of the officers prods me forward and I trip, my feet suddenly useless. If I’m not being arrested, then what—
Shit. It’s another job. He’s going to make me work for him again.
“Um.” Matthews rubs the back of his head, looking dumbfounded, which, to be honest, isn’t much of a stretch for him. “It’s not really protocol.”
“It’ll only be for a few minutes, and we’d really appreciate the help.” Carson’s smile goes crocodile wide. “I’ll be sure to remember it.”
“Oh, good. That’s good.” Matthews retreats, refusing to meet my eyes. He pats his pockets like he lost something. “We’re always happy to be of assistance.”
And, to Matthews’s credit, he does sound happy, but when he looks at the floor, the roots of his hair are glittery with sweat.
I can’t blame him. The detective has the same effect on me.
I follow Carson into the empty classroom, neither of us saying anything until the door clicks closed.
“Well, well, Wicket Tate.” He smiles. “You don’t call. You don’t write. What am I supposed to think?”
“It’s not you. It’s me.” I tap one finger to my lower lip. “Nah, it’s definitely you.”
Carson laughs. He sits down on a desktop so we’re almost eye to eye, a poster of Spanish verb conjugations above his head as he paws through my bag. “I miss this, Wick. You’re always such a smart-ass when you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“You should be.” He looks up, the amused smile snapped off. “You’re not keeping up with our deal. You do what I want now. Remember? Or else you go to jail.”
Carson leans closer and I have to push my feet into the floor to keep from running. “I have evidence you hacked to catch Todd Callaway.”
My breath dries up. Stupid how after so many months the name can still make me flinch. Todd. My former foster dad and my former best friend’s rapist. He almost killed me. What I did to catch him was justified . . . it just wasn’t legal.
“If I can find evidence on what you did to Callaway,” Carson says, “imagine what I could find on the work you did for that shitbird father of yours.”
Odds are, he could find loads—especially if my father and his partner decide to roll on me. I focus on the Spanish verbs so I don’t have to meet Carson’s eyes. “What do you want?”
“I have another job. It’s perfect for you.” When I don’t respond, the detective clears his throat and continues, “I want to track Jason Baines and I want you to make it happen. Immediately.”
He’s right. It is kind of perfect. Baines is a mid-level drug dealer who worked for my father. We have history. If anyone could get close, I could—except this is beyond the type of work I usually do. Before, Carson needed an email track here, a credit card trace there. This is way riskier.
“Find someone else, Carson. I do cyberspace. Tracking that fast would require contact.”