Mortal Danger by Ann Aguirre
“Riley. Do you intend to check me out?”
“Do you blame me? Your story might be sympathy bait.”
“I don’t. Feel free to look it up. You can use my phone if yours doesn’t have Internet. The scandal with my dad was pretty well publicized.”
Mentally I did the math as I took his cell. If he was twenty, it would’ve all happened nine years back. So I specified the date in the search bar, along with “Riley Ponzi scheme” and the phone spat back a bunch of links. I picked one at random and read a summary of what he’d just told me.
“Is your mom all right?”
“She’s in and out of programs, they never stick. She misses being a socialite but she doesn’t have the money to support the lifestyle. So she goes back to using to cope.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be. Working for Wedderburn, Mawer & Graf has its perks.” Judging by the sardonic twist of his mouth, this was more verbal propaganda.
So I played along. “Like what?”
“The house in Colorado. And they don’t mind if I take college classes as long as I keep up with my workload.”
“Which right now is only me.”
I thought about the cabin he’d brought me to, back at the start of the summer. At least they paid well for him to afford a place with a view like that. He was pretty young to own property, and his favors had only included the car, not wealth.
“True. Lucky me.” He was smiling, but I wondered how far I could trust him.
Kian might be playing a long game, building rapport for reasons that would become clear only after he sprang the trap. After all, that was what I planned to do with the Teflon crew, so I couldn’t believe the warmth I saw reflected in his green eyes. On one hand, he had saved my life, but a girl was dead because of him. Though I wanted to, I couldn’t trust him.
“Do you talk to your mom much?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I can’t be around her when she’s using. But I pay for rehab when she chooses to go. Once a year, she has a ‘breakthrough,’ makes a bunch of promises about how it’ll be different, and we start the cycle all over again.”
“That sucks.” Possibly the least insightful response ever offered.
“Yeah.”
“Is it possible for me to tour Wedderburn, Mawer & Graf?” I asked, mostly because I regretted prying, and it was the first topic that sprang to mind.
“Sure. Why?”
“Knowledge is power.”
He studied me for a few seconds, then nodded. “I’ll talk to my boss and set it up. Just … be prepared. If he permits you to access more than the public areas, you’ll see some … strange things.”
“I can hardly wait.” The reply was pure bravado. I couldn’t let him see how nervous I was, or the fact that I was in way over my head.
After that, we finished our food—it was really good—and he drove me home. I was wary of getting too deep before I had a handle on what I’d learned. Kian tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. The more I learned about him, the more torn I was. Part of me thought that with so much tragedy in his past, he just couldn’t be as simple and straightforward as he pretended. It made me feel like he had to be playing me. He cast a few looks in my direction, but I couldn’t meet his gaze. Instead I stared out the window at the passing buildings. Once he reached for my hand, but I pulled back and flattened it on my knee. His breath caught, a whisper of sound I barely heard against the rush of the vents.
Smooth, Edie. You hurt his feelings.
By the time he pulled up in front of the brownstone, tension quivered in the air between. I hardly knew what to say. Finally, I managed, “Thanks for dinner.”
“I’ll call you.” He didn’t ask for a kiss or suggest we go out again. In fact, he wasn’t even looking at me.
The distance came from me, but crazily, I didn’t like it. Sitting here wouldn’t solve anything, so I offered a jerky nod and climbed out. It took all of my resolve not to look back, but as I climbed the steps to the entryway, the Mustang roared off. Then I did spin around, watching the red car weave into traffic and turn the corner a block down.
Sorry, Kian.
I plodded upstairs. My dad was home, but my mom wasn’t. He still had on his tweed jacket, which made him look like a professor, and maybe that was the point. He glanced up from the journal he was reading and asked, “How was your day?”
“Fine. I had an early dinner, so I’m getting started on my homework.”
“Good idea.”
That concluded the parental talk for the day. He went back to his article as I headed for my room. I did try to focus on the assigned reading, but certain aspects of Kian’s story gnawed at me. Guilt plucked at me because I’d definitely cooled off toward the end, communicating my reservations unmistakably. With a muttered curse, I threw down my World History book and opened my laptop. I pulled it across my lap and opened the browser.
First I searched for information about his father, just in case his phone had been tampered with, but I came up with the same results. Albert J. Riley’s house of cards tumbled today. After defrauding hundreds of investors, the self-styled financial genius died at his Pennsylvania home. In a double tragedy … I read on, confirming that Kian had, in fact, lost his sister that day. Riley is survived by his wife, Vanessa, and his son, Kian.
But this wasn’t enough to put my mind at ease, so I input “local girl suicide” plus the town name and the story came up, short and to the point. Tanya Jackson of Cross Point, Pennsylvania, took her life today. She had a history of mental instability and she overdosed on her mother’s prescription medication. EMTs attempted to revive her, but ultimately failed, and she was pronounced dead on her arrival at Cross Point Memorial Hospital. It seemed … bizarre that whatever Kian was meant to achieve, it had been tied inextricably to one teenage girl. What if I screwed up my timeline unintentionally?
You’ll end up enslaved to Wedderburn, too.
That sent a shiver down my spine. Well, at least now I had proof that Kian hadn’t made it all up to engage my sympathies. Reassuring, even as I suspected there was something off about the whole thing. I couldn’t dismiss the possibility that he had, in fact, wanted Tanya dead. Maybe that was his wish, not for her to fall in love with him. I had no idea if murder could be one of the favors; he’d said it was limited only by imagination and the company didn’t seem to value human life very much.
You could ask, a little voice whispered.
Someone at Wedderburn, Mawer & Graf might be willing to talk, though that would reveal that I didn’t trust Kian. No way to tell how that would impact the game he was running on his boss about making me fall for him so I’d use my favors faster. Damn. It’s too much to decide about tonight. My life had turned from untenable to unfathomable in the space of a summer, and each step felt like walking across a high wire.
On impulse I searched Wedderburn, Mawer & Graf, just to see what came up. A glossy Web site provided very little information on what the company actually did. The mission statement was about as illuminating as the one in Blackbriar’s brochures. Our responsibility, professionally, is to leverage resources in order to orchestrate diverse opportunities. Our challenge is to proactively maintain information to allow us to innovate cutting-edge mindshare. Our goal is to seamlessly create new technologies to stay relevant in tomorrow’s world. Losing interest in figuring out if WM&G had any products or services, I clicked around the site. In time I found Kian’s name on one of the subpages. He was listed as a financial analyst and it gave his e-mail address. I almost added it to my laptop contacts, then I decided we probably shouldn’t use company servers.
The executives had pages all to themselves, especially the titular ones. I selected Karl Wedderburn and read his bio. In his picture, he looked like an elderly man, well-groomed mustache, and a thick head of white hair, but there was an unnerving look in his eyes, even in the photo. He looked older than the sixty years the picture gave him, and when I narrowed my eyes, it was li
“Creepy,” I whispered.
Restraining a shiver, I shut down my laptop entirely. It was possible that Kian’s talk about shadowy enemies and trusting no one had worked on me until I was suggestible, but there was just something not right about Karl Wedderburn; I could tell that much from that quick glimpse. And Kian’s at his mercy.
It took some effort, but I finished my homework and went to bed. I was just about to fall asleep when I realized I hadn’t thought to check for messages from Ryu or Vi. Tomorrow, I promised myself. First thing. I couldn’t let go of the first two real friends I ever made—and in some ways, my only link to normal life.
The next day at school, Jen was waiting for me at my locker. “I haven’t seen Allison this agitated since her hair got fried with knock-off straightening product.”
“Why?” I’d forgotten about firing the first shots at her yesterday. The revenge thing seemed almost petty in comparison to the deep water I was wading elsewhere. It wasn’t that I’d forgiven them, more that high school drama didn’t weigh heavily against life and death.
“Because you made her look like an idiot at lunch and, apparently, your boyfriend is so hot that she’s dying of jealousy.”
“I’m not sad about that,” I admitted.
She smiled. “I don’t blame you. She’s my least favorite person in our crowd. Brittany is pretty nice when you get her alone. It’s just … around other people, she feels like she has something to prove.”
“Genius.”
“I never said she was bright. In fact, that’s part of the problem. Her dad’s been telling her ‘it’s a good thing you’re pretty’ since she was ten. She thinks her brain is what keeps her skull from echoing. And she kinda … hates smart girls as a result.”
“Because she thinks she isn’t?” I didn’t want to learn more about my enemies. If I understood why Brittany acted this way, it would make it harder to bring about her downfall.
“She’s not as dumb as her dad makes her feel, but she’s not on your level. Now that you’re hot, too…” Jen shrugged. “Anyway, I’ve been told to ask you to sit with us today at lunch, but I think they’re planning something.”
“Allison and Brittany?”
She nodded. “I understand if you’d rather not deal with the drama.”
“I can handle it.” Besides, this was my way in. I felt reasonably sure I could parlay this invite into a permanent place at the table, provided I turned whatever prank they had planned back on them. If they thought I was the same beaten girl they’d abused last year … well. I smiled at Jen. “I’m looking forward to it, actually.”
Morning classes went quickly, especially since I started with AP Lit. Most of the girls stared at Colin, dreamy-eyed, but I listened to his lecture. He was good, offering insights I hadn’t considered on a poem I’d read many times before. The rest of my teachers suffered by comparison. Then it was time for the showdown at lunch.
Jen picked me up and walked with me to the cafeteria. We got food from the line and then went over to the Teflon table. They were such a fixture that they’d claimed it by scrawling on the top with Sharpies, and nobody else ever sat there, even if the whole crew was running late. This time I didn’t hesitate when I saw Cameron at the other end. I sat down beside Jen, careful to ignore him, even though my stomach was swirling like a toilet. The nausea came back, reminding me how I’d felt that day, so utterly helpless, and my mouth dry, my throat tasting of vomit.
Drawing from pure determination, I pasted on a smile and said, “Hey, Cam.”
Do people call him that? They do now.
“Cameron,” he corrected.
I opened my eyes wide as a couple of guys from the lacrosse team approached. “Seriously? You won’t let anyone shorten your name?”
“It’s because it sounds like ‘can,’” Russ Thomas said with a smirk. “As in ass and garbage.”
“Maybe you should call him Can. Because he is kind of an ass.” I paired that with a smile, making eye contact first with Russ and then with his friend Phillip.
A few more people showed up in time to hear Russ say, “I love that. After what you did to my car, bro, I will call you Can.”
“What did he do?” I asked.
Russ wore a disgusted look. “Barfed all over it. Bitch can’t hold his liquor.”
“That’s … surprising.” With a twitch of my shoulder, I dismissed Cameron Dean and listened to Russ ramble about the lacrosse team’s chances at the championship this year.
I cared minuscule amounts about that, but his attention kept Brittany and Allison from talking to me because every time they tried to start whatever drama they’d planned, he aimed a disgruntled look in their direction and said, “Christ, you can talk to her about how awesome her hair is later.”
Which was incredibly offensive, as girls did talk about issues more important than hair and makeup, but since it served my purposes, I didn’t call him on it. Not like I’m being myself with these imbeciles anyway. So if the pretense made me a little sick to my stomach, it was understandable.
As break ended, I said to Russ, “We have the next class together, don’t we?”
Sadly he had to think about it. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Want to walk me? I’d like to hear more about lacrosse.” I capped my smile, giving just enough warmth to show interest in the sport, not Russ.
Since I have a boyfriend. Who might’ve killed the last girl who rejected him.
“A budding fan, huh? Absolutely.”
Davina watched us go, wearing an expression I couldn’t interpret. Once we left the others, I pitched my voice low. “What’s the deal with Can?”
He snickered at the nickname. “What do you mean?”
“He seems a little … sensitive.” I said it like it was a dirty word. To most guys it seemed to be.
“You mean, like he can’t take a joke?”
I nodded. “I’ve seen him dish it out, but…”
“Yeah. To tell you the truth, he’s kind of a whiny bitch. We roll with him because he’s got a sweet house and his parents are never home.”
“Interesting.” I smiled up at him, making a mental note to repeat that in front of Allison at the first opportunity. I suspected she wouldn’t have the judgment to be discreet.
Russ shouldered through the halls, and smaller students got out of the way. I felt like an asshole walking with him. He stopped outside our class and gestured for me to go ahead. It was interesting, like an anthropological experiment, to see that he was capable of using manners with someone he considered worth the trouble.
“You’re a nice guy,” I lied.
He winked at me. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
THAT FRYING PAN WAS PRETTY NICE, ACTUALLY …
I didn’t expect Kian to be waiting for me when I left school and he wasn’t. Russ offered me a ride home, but I shook my head. “I don’t mind the T. Thanks anyway.”
“Where’s your boyfriend today?” he asked.
“He has class. See you.”
With a wave, I headed for the station, caught the train, and hopped off at Kenmore to grab takeout from India Quality for dinner. The platform was a mess, including the usual spectacle: a couple arguing; a mass of Sox fans jostling while heckling a guy who had on the wrong hat; and a mother scolding her toddler. Through the crowd I glimpsed a tall, gaunt man with pallid, oddly blurred features and thinning hair that clung to his pink scalp in damp stripes. He froze when he spotted me, and at first I thought it must be someone behind me. I half turned, glancing over my shoulder, but there was nobody.
I had to pass him to reach the street, so I fixed my eyes on the ground, shoulders down, out of reflex; that was what I’d always done when someone singled me out for unwanted attention. Somehow, even though I put plenty of space between us, he was right in front of me, blocking my path.
“The dead walk.
His eyes rolled in his head, going completely white, and he fumbled for my wrist. I jerked back, almost running into a man in a suit coming up behind me.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” the businessman demanded.
I frowned at him and pointed … but the spot the creepy dude had occupied was vacant now. Spinning, I searched the whole area and saw no sign of him; his stink lingered, though, proving I wasn’t insane.
“Nothing,” I said finally.
“Don’t forget your meds next time, sweetheart.” The asshole brushed by me and I followed, a cold chill creeping down my spine.
It was marginally better in the heat and humidity of a sunny afternoon. Kian told you not to trust anyone but him. And he said you could be in danger. Creepy disappearing guy made my flesh crawl. I quickened my step toward the brownstone and tried to pretend my skin wasn’t still prickling with the sense that something was very wrong. Sometimes, when I was little, I’d wake up in the middle of the night, sure someone was watching me, but I was never a baby in the sense that I ran to my parents, crying, and begged to sleep in their bed.
No, even at six, I had been methodical, not prone to a wild imagination. I used to swallow the fear that something would grab my ankles just as soon as I put my feet on the floor. The first step was always a bound and then I ran to the light switch to flood the room with brightness, banishing all the shadows. I’d open all my drawers, peer under my bed, check my closet and silently reassure myself there was nothing to fear. Some nights, I just left the lights on and shut them off before I went to school. But no amount of checking the area today banished this feeling. I saw no one paying me any particular attention; it was all apartment buildings and renovated properties. Not even a single window curtain flickered as I went past. I rubbed my fingertips up my arm, conscious of actual goose bumps.