“Did he tell the FBI it was him when he sent them the evidence?” Charlotte asks.

“No. But he slipped up, apparently, because something was traceable back to him. Rohm wouldn’t tell me what it was. Could’ve been powers of deduction. Like they looked at the list of students who got ripped off, and there was only one or two who were real good at computers. And then there was one who was real good at computers, and that was Bailey. I wasn’t in much of a position to ask questions. The only thing Agent Rohm would tell me is that my only shot at the FBI would be if I ratted out my brother.”

“And what did you say?”

Luke meets her gaze. “I told him to go fuck himself with an umbrella.”

“Literally?”

“Word for word. If I’d had an umbrella I would have given it to him, but it was sunny out that day.”

Charlotte smiles. “And what did he say to that?”

“He said I’d never get a job in government or any law enforcement agency outside of some rinky-dink small-town police department for as long as I lived. Those were his exact words, by the way. Rinky-dink.”

“And so you went and got a job at the first rinky-dink small-town police department you could find.”

“Yep,” he says, and his smile seems genuine. “I showed him, right?”

For some reason, this story means so much more than his apology. It’s proof, she realizes, that he’s a changed man; that he was willing to give up his lifelong dream rather than betray his family—his only family. That’s not the Luke Prescott she knew in high school. But it’s the Luke Prescott standing before her now, a man dealing head-on with the sacrifices loyalty entails.

“What?” he asks suddenly.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“Your face . . . I don’t know. Your expression, I’m just . . .”

“Just what?”

“I can’t read it.”

“I’m impressed.”

He stares at her for a while, and then his entire frame seems to relax, and she wonders if this is the first time he’s talked about this with anyone. If her words are the first nice thing anyone’s said about the sacrifice he made for his brother. Only then does it dawn on her how truly alone he is. A few days earlier she would have described herself as alone. Not lonely. But alone. And by choice. But when she needed help, she had no trouble drawing people around her who cared about her. Kayla, and then Marty, and now Marty’s posse of 12-steppers.

And now Luke? she asks herself.

No, that’s crazy. Luke is just a down-on-his-luck guy looking to make some kind of amends that will smooth his homecoming. But that thing he said, though.

If there’s anything I can do to make up for it, let me know.

Would it be so bad having a cop on her side right now? Especially a smart, highly educated one, who reads textbooks on profiling and crime scene investigation?

Or a hacker who can find people living off the grid on the other side of the world? Could the same hacker tell her everything she wanted to know about someone who had lied to her about who he was?

“Where’d you go?” Luke asks.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s like I lost you there for a second.”

“You did. Kinda.”

“Can I ask a question now?” he says.

“Shoot.”

“You don’t live around here anymore, do you?”

She doesn’t answer.

“And you’re back, but Marty says you don’t have much time. And you changed your name . . . so . . . what’s going on?”

“It’s been a busy couple of days.”

Luke nods, but he’s clearly disappointed in her answer.

“My turn,” she says.

“Yeah, OK. I guess we can pretend that was quid pro quo.”

“You said if there was anything you can do to help, to let you know. How serious were you?”

“Serious, but—”

“When was the last time you heard from your brother?” she asks.

Luke takes a careful sip of beer, staring at her while he does so.

“Why?” he asks once he swallows.

“Because I need his help.”

The struggle inside him is almost painful to see: the war between his desire to make good on his word to her and his desire to guard his family’s secret.

“I need to find someone. And if your brother can hack a satellite, he can find anyone, right?”

Luke’s mouth opens to protest.

Just then the alarm panel next to the front door releases a shrill series of beeps. It doesn’t sound like any alarm or warning she’s ever heard; it’s almost musical. A two-tone pattern that repeats again and again, more mischievous than threatening.

Luke dives into the kitchen and returns with his gun drawn. That’s when she sees the computer monitor in the front room flashing black and white in a rhythm that matches the alarm’s maddening song.

Luke advances on the panel, gun drawn, then lowers it when he reads whatever’s on the display. A second version of the chirping tune starts up somewhere close by, accompanied by the familiar sound of a cell phone vibrating against a wooden table. In any other circumstance, it would be intolerably rude of her to pick up Luke’s phone and read the display, but this is a special circumstance for sure.

The words she sees flashing across the screen are the same that are now flashing across the monitor. And when she joins Luke in the foyer, she sees the same words scrolling across the alarm panel’s display.

YES I CAN YES I CAN YES I CAN YES I CAN

YES I CAN YES I CAN.

22

Luke’s musical tastes don’t get any harder than classic rock, so he’s not surprised the alarm’s shrill song makes him want to cover his ears with both hands. But damn if he’s actually going to do that in front of Charley. He couldn’t if he wanted to because he’s still got his gun in hand.

“What the fu—hell?” he cries.

“I’m a grown-up,” Charley says. “You can curse.”

She turns from the alarm panel and advances on his computer; he follows.

“Last time you saw your brother, did you go to the bathroom at all?” Charley cries over the racket.

“My brother and I don’t go to the bathroom together!”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” she shouts.

“I can’t think with this damn noise!”

“Stop it, Bailey!” she shouts.

And just like that, the music stops.

The message on the computer screen freezes, the words blaring YES I CAN.

A glance over his shoulder confirms the burglar alarm’s display panel holds the same freeze-frame.

Luke places the gun on its side next to the keyboard, muzzle pointed at the wall. He’s not sure what’s startled him more—the fact that the crazy music just stopped, or that Charley was so confident his brother was the composer.

“Your phone,” Charley says, but she’s scanning their surroundings now.

“What about it?”

“Did you leave it alone with your brother the last time you saw him?”

“I don’t . . . maybe. I don’t know.”

“He probably put some kind of malware on it so he could spy on you. Then he used it to hack your Wi-Fi here at the house.”

In response, three quick beeps come from the alarm system. The message on the computer screen is quickly replaced with one that says, BINGO!

“You know about this stuff?” he asks.

“I’m not an expert like your brother, but we used to get hacked a bunch when I lived with my dad. There were a lot of ass wipes on the Internet who thought I was lying about not killing anyone on the farm. I had to learn how to protect myself.”

He keeps his mouth shut. She probably doesn’t mean it as a dig, but he’s embarrassed nonetheless. How many times back in high school did he vaguely imply she might have been changed by her time with the Bannings? More than once, that’s for sure. And this is who that bullshit put him in league with. Hackers.

Focus, he tells himself. As if his brain wasn’t already overloaded from Trina’s—Charley, Charley, Charley, he corrects himself—visit, the knowledge that Bailey’s been watching his every move makes his pulse roar and his head spin, which seems to him like a good combination for a heart attack.

“Spy on me,” Luke whispers. “He was spying . . .” He turns to the computer and the tiny camera embedded in the top of the monitor. “You were spying on me?”

The message on-screen is replaced by a series of Zs emerging from the bottom of the screen, increasing in size as they drift upward—the universal sign for snoring.

“Obviously you all don’t have the same taste in TV shows,” Charley says.

“You couldn’t tell me you were alive, but you were spying on me the whole time? That’s awesome, dude. That’s just fucking awesome.”

“Luke . . .”

“What? You told me I could curse.”

“It’s the volume. Marty’s outside.”

Just then a crude outline of a clock appears on the screen. A red line slashes through it. All of this happens on a black background that seems to have wiped all personal touches from the computer monitor. Luke somehow finds that more unnerving than having his privacy invaded.

There should be relief in here somewhere. Relief that Bailey’s alive and safe. But where’s the apology? He’s not seeing the emoji for one slide across the screen, so he figures he’s got the right to be pissed. For now.