“I want to thank all of you for coming,” Bay says, smiling and adjusting his dark suit jacket. I guess he couldn’t be bothered with a costume. “I’m sure most of you know what I’m about to say so I’ll spare you any more theatrics and, instead, get to what y’all been waiting for—”
I don’t know. I’d say all of us is a bit of a stretch, but, judging from everyone’s rapt attention, I’m in the minority. Bay gestures to the curtain behind him and it starts to slide open . . . and jerks to a stop as someone screams.
Two women crash into me and I stumble. Bren’s pulling me away, but I can’t stop staring. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
It’s a dead woman.
She’s dressed like an angel and propped into a sitting position underneath Bay’s enormous grinning photograph. More people plow into us, running for the door, and Bren tugs me close, using one palm to shield my face from the sight.
Too late. I close my eyes and the curl of body blooms behind them. The dead girl’s dress is torn halfway off, her chest is bloody, but you can still read the words someone carved:
REMEMBER ME.
3
What’s worse than going to a costume party? Sitting in a cop car.
Bren was talking to some officer when Carson spotted us and peeled me away to get my “statement.” Now I’m stuck here, slumped low in the passenger seat and picking at the upholstery while Carson yells at two EMTs who were called to the scene. There are a lot of hand gestures going on. The detective is not a happy camper.
That makes two of us, I guess.
Carson spins around and stalks toward me, yanking open the car door with enough force to make the hinges creak.
“You had a job to do.”
“And I did it. Can I go now?”
“No, you can’t fucking ‘go.’” Carson chews his toothpick harder, swinging it from side to side. He’s super pissed and I don’t care.
Well, I do care, just not in the way I should. I’m not gunning for Employee of the Year—more like Hacker Who Stays Out of Jail. I smile at Carson. He glares at me.
Across the lawn, Ian Bay, the judge’s son, catches sight of us and pauses, the red and blue lights from the emergency vehicles twirling over his dark hair. He holds my gaze for so long I look down, pretend I’m hyperventilating. Nothing to see here. Just a scared teenage girl giving her account of the situation to the police. I do not need someone from my school wondering why Carson and I are having our second heart-to-heart in less than eight hours.
Carson flicks his toothpick onto the ground. “Who’s your friend, Wicket?”
I lick my lips, stalling. I don’t know why, but I have always hated the way he says my name. “No idea what you’re talking about. He’s not my friend.”
When I look up again, Ian is gone, replaced by a set of medics pushing a gurney across the grass, wheeling an unconscious Jason Baines toward the street. He isn’t moving and guilt pries into all my corners.
“So you can take direction.” Carson’s laugh is a dry bark. “I’m assuming you took my advice?”
I turn my face away. “I hope he wakes up.”
“Like it would be a tragedy if he didn’t.” The detective’s tone is equal parts sarcasm and camaraderie—like we’re buddies in on the same joke.
We’re so not. If he says this stuff about Jason, what does he say about me?
An officer appears at Carson’s elbow. “There are footsteps leading around the side of the house, sir. They head east along the flower beds.”
My hands go cold. East goes directly past the office, past me when I was with Jason.
“Could be one of the guests,” Carson says.
“Could be.” The other cop glances down at me, hesitant to say more. “However, there’s other evidence that suggests it’s the killer, sir.”
I tuck both hands under my thighs and ignore how my armpits have turned swampy.
“Do not move,” Carson says, peeling away to follow the officer.
Not planning to, but thanks for the reminder. I lean over, put my forehead on my knees, and close my eyes. Only I see the dead girl.
Remember me.
Yeah, I’d rather not. I sit up, look around. Hmm. Well, as long as I’m here.
I prop my feet on the curb and go through Carson’s glove box. It’s been a while since I’ve been in the detective’s unmarked sedan. Looks like they got my dried blood off the dash. Too bad there are the same fast food bags and junk on the floor. Pig.
Heh.
“Wicket Tate?”
“Yeah?” I answer without thinking and regret it once I turn toward the voice. It’s another cop, one I don’t recognize.
“I have something for you.” He thrusts a thin, small square at me, gives it a tiny shake. “Take it.”
I shouldn’t ease back—makes me look weak—but I do. I don’t like this. There’s something about the guy’s smile that makes the hair on my arms go rigid. “What is it?”
“It’s something you should have.”
“Yeah, no thanks, I think I saw that after-school special.”
“Suit yourself.” The cop—Hart, according to his name plate—shrugs and sets the square on the pavement right in between his shiny black loafers and my scruffy black Chucks. He straightens, smiles, and walks off, heading through the rows of parked cars.