Follow Me (Corrupted Hearts) Read online

  “Mia, I’m in some trouble,” I said, “and I need you to just listen, okay?”

  “Okay.” She was serious, her blue eyes solemn as she looked at me. I glanced back at the road.

  “It’s my job. They . . . suspect that I’ve done something wrong. Something against the law.”

  “You would never—” she burst out.

  “I know,” I interrupted. “But I have to find out who did. Unfortunately, the people who think I did it . . . they’re looking for me. And I don’t want them to find you while I’m working to clear my name. So . . . I need you to stay with a friend of mine. Just for a while.”

  “A friend?” she asked. “Who is she?”

  “Um . . . it’s not really a she.”

  “Please, Yash,” I hissed. “It’s just for a few days.”

  He didn’t stop pacing. “You want to leave a teenager . . . a girl . . . in my apartment? Overnight? Are you out of your mind?”

  “I’ll owe you one,” I cajoled. I wished Bonnie had been home, but she was in class and hadn’t answered my call, which wasn’t unusual when she was in the middle of one of her four-hour culinary classes.

  He stopped in his tracks, staring in horror through the closed French doors to where Mia was checking out the kitchen. “Oh my God! She’s touching my things!”

  “She’s looking in the refrigerator, Yash,” I said, impatient. “It’s lunchtime. She’s probably hungry.”

  “What am I going to do with her?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just . . . feed her, park her in front of the TV—it doesn’t matter. She’s not a toddler. It isn’t as though you need to entertain her. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “But . . . people don’t stay here,” he fretted. “I stay here, but not people.” Yash was literally wringing his hands.

  “Buck up, Yash. It’ll be fine.”

  “I have a teleconference in half an hour. Do you think she’ll be quiet for that?”

  “She’s not a dog either,” I harrumphed. “If you ask her to be quiet, she will. Did you get into the phone I left with you?”

  “Of course I did,” he said, waving a hand impatiently at me while he watched Mia take a container from the fridge and open it. “I left you a voice mail, didn’t you get it? It’s over on my desk. The security has been removed and I modified the GPS to transmit at a random spot about ten miles away, so it’s safe to turn on.”

  I left Yash anxiously watching Mia’s every move and retrieved the phone. I read through the latest text messages that had come in before Freyda’s murder. George, John, and Lana had all texted via a group chat regarding the software and who had checked their files in, per the decision I’d made earlier that day.

  Then there was some discussion about the project and their safety. Freyda had told them she’d talk things over with me and get back to them. There were a few messages after that, but nothing more from Freyda.

  I scrolled through her messages and contacts, especially those from the last few days, pausing on one with just the initials PCOS. The texts from PCOS were much more cryptic and there were only a few.

  Status?

  Freyda had replied, Nearly finished. I’m seeing to it.

  Remember the nondisclosure.

  And that was it. Not exactly a red flag, but enough to warrant more information. I hesitated, then typed, What’s in the nondisclosure? and waited. It didn’t take long for a response.

  You’re brave, using a dead woman’s phone.

  Shit. They knew. Of course they knew. But that still didn’t stop the chill that went down my spine. Why would you kill her?

  Who said I did?

  I stared at the screen. They texted again.

  I want the software. And I know who you are . . . China.

  My whole body broke out in a cold sweat. I don’t have the software, I texted, deciding to ignore confirming or denying who they thought I was.

  It’s dangerous to lie.

  Is that a threat?

  It’s a fact. Deliver the software. We’re prepared to go to extreme lengths to obtain it.

  Who’s ‘we’? I texted.

  Silence.

  I’ll be in touch . . . I hit Send. Okay, so the people who’d resurrected Vigilance—the mysterious government agency Freyda had been on the verge of telling me about—didn’t have it. Whoever had stolen it didn’t work for them. Which meant whoever had stolen the software was another party entirely and I had no idea who that might be.

  The only clue I had was that the person had used Freyda’s log in. Very few people would have access to that information. And at the top of my list was John—who hadn’t gone into work today.

  “Any way you could find out who this is?” I asked, showing Yash the entry for PCOS. He paid me no attention. “Hey. Yash.” I waved the phone in front of his face to finally get his attention. “Can you find out who this is?”

  “Hm? What? Oh. Oh, yes. I suppose.” He took it from me. “She’s eating my leftover spaghetti Bolognese.”

  “That means she likes your cooking,” I said. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you.” Opening the doors, I saw Mia slurping up some noodles.

  “Hope it’s okay,” she said around a mouthful. “There was lots and I’m starving.”

  “Yash said it’s fine,” I lied. “Listen, I’ll be back, okay? Just stay here—don’t go home and don’t go back to school—until I come for you.”

  “You’re really worrying me,” she said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said, giving her a quick hug. “Just stay here. That’s what you can do to help.”

  The concern in her eyes echoed inside my gut, but I had to leave. Hiding my head under a rock was only going to get it chopped off sooner.

  It took me longer than it should’ve to find where John lived. It was midafternoon by the time I pulled up to the ranch house in a nice suburb of Raleigh. It wasn’t exactly the bachelor pad I’d envisioned.

  A two-story colonial, its front yard was well tended with a huge oak tree taking up most of the space. The houses here were relatively close together with the plots extending behind them into lush backyards.

  I drove by at first, to see if I noticed anything out of the ordinary, but from the outside it appeared as though no one was home. Still leery, I parked on the street rather than in the driveway. Images of Tom’s widow, crying in their home, and Freyda, dead in the front seat of my car, crowded inside my head. And then there was Terry, victim of a supposed car accident. If John was involved, he wasn’t going to just confess to me and come quietly to the police. But if he wasn’t involved, chances were good he was a target and needed to be warned.

  I took a deep breath and got out of the car. My name needed to be cleared. I was betting that one of the members of the team had stolen Vigilance. John had argued hard to shut down the project and go public. I wouldn’t put it past him to steal the software and destroy the backups himself to make sure that happened. And if he had, then odds were he was already gone from here.

  Maybe I could hack into his system and find out more. If he was innocent—which I highly doubted—then I had nothing to worry about and maybe he could help me figure out who had used Freyda’s credentials to steal the program.

  Making my way to the front door, I rang the bell and waited. A minute went by. Nothing happened. I tried again, waiting another minute or two, but still no one came. I peered through the window next to the door, focusing my gaze past the gauzy translucent curtain.

  The foyer was hardwood and held only a small table on which sat a stack of mail. Beyond the foyer, I saw a set of stairs leading up, and what was perhaps the kitchen past that. Then my gaze went no farther because there, lying on the floor, I could see a pair of legs. They weren’t moving.

  Jerking backward, I reached for my cell phone, only to realize it wasn’t there. A cold rush of adrenaline poured through me. Was it John? Was he dead? What if he needed help?

  I hurried from
the front to the back of the house, knowing it would be far easier to break inside farther away from prying eyes. I knew CPR and rudimentary first aid—courtesy of living forty-five minutes away from the nearest hospital growing up. I might be able to help John.

  A decorative stone wall provided a big enough rock to sail through the glass sliding doors. I winced at the cacophony of noise, then wrapped my hand inside my shirt so I could reach in and unlock the door.

  The fact that the body on the floor hadn’t moved when I’d broken the glass wasn’t a good sign and I was right. I skidded to a halt in the middle of the kitchen linoleum, bile rising in my throat. Whoever was killing the team no longer felt it necessary to make the deaths look like an accident.

  John lay in a pool of blood, eyes open, with half the back of his head splattered against the wall. I closed my eyes and took a breath, but it was no use. I ran for the sink and threw up.

  Tears stung my eyes as I heaved. I wanted to lash out, rail at the world, at someone, for the deaths of these people. Horror stalked me and I had no idea who was doing this. But I was done trying to do this alone. It was time to call the police and let the chips fall where they would. Maybe they could at least protect me, Lana, and George. We were all that was left.

  And Jackson.

  The scuff of a shoe behind me made me scream as I whirled around, for a split second terrified I’d find John had risen as a zombie about to attack me. But John was still dead on the floor . . . and Clark stood over him, his eyes on me.

  I stood frozen in shock, unable to believe what I was seeing. Clark? Here?

  It took longer than it should’ve for me to put two and two together—yes, I’m supposedly supersmart—and when it did click in my head, the instinct for survival kicked in hard. He was the one killing people and he’d played me.

  Snatching a steak knife from the butcher block at my elbow, I held it out in front of me.

  “Stay back, Clark,” I warned.

  “What are you doing, China?” he asked, remarkably calm for someone who’d just killed a man in cold blood. “Put that down before you hurt yourself.”

  I flipped the knife so I was holding the blade rather than the hilt, then I flung it. As I’d intended, it landed in the wall behind Clark, approximately two inches to the side of his head. I snatched another knife from the block. They weren’t weighted properly, but I could make do.

  “Holy shit, China!” he exploded. “You could’ve killed me. What the hell?”

  “Don’t try to tell me you’re not behind this,” I retorted. “You know too much. Too conveniently calling me when Freyda was shot. Now you’re here.”

  “I didn’t kill John,” he said, “and I didn’t kill Freyda.”

  “I have absolutely no reason to believe you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Then answer me this: why are you still alive? I could’ve killed you several times over by now.”

  Sirens screamed in the distance and I realized I was in a bad position. What if Clark pointed the finger at me for John’s murder? I was holding him at knifepoint. And who was going to warn Lana and George?

  I edged toward the entryway, careful to keep him in my sight. “Don’t follow me,” I warned. “Or next time, I won’t miss.”

  The door was at my back and I reached behind me, closing my hand on the knob. Clark was watching me.

  “Don’t leave, China,” he said. “Please. I can help you. Protect you. I don’t want your body to be the next one I find.”

  That was a sobering thought, but I shook my head. “I’ll take my chances.”

  I twisted the knob and jerked open the door, having to turn my back on Clark.

  “Wait!” he called. I glanced back. He was pointing a gun at me. “You can’t leave, China.”

  I swallowed. The gun looked very serious and that old saying went through my head, the one about bringing a knife to a gunfight.

  “I’m not staying,” I said. “If you don’t want me to leave, you’ll have to shoot me.” A gamble, yes. But he had a point—he hadn’t killed me yet and he’d had ample opportunity. So for whatever reason that he hadn’t, I was hoping it was enough to keep me alive a while longer.

  Our eyes were locked and I took a deep breath, my heart racing and my palms sweaty. I hoped that if he did shoot, he wouldn’t miss. Gunshot wounds didn’t exactly feel like butterfly kisses.

  But he didn’t shoot, and after a tense moment of our Mexican standoff, I sprinted out the door and across the street to Lance’s car. Turning my back on a loaded gun was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Every instinct in me resisted it, but the fight or flight response was full force and I ran like a horde of demons was after me.

  I saw Clark in the rearview mirror watching me before I disappeared down the road. Clark knew a lot more about this than he was telling me. I didn’t want to think that he’d killed John. Or that he might kill me . . . eventually.

  Lana lived twenty minutes away from John but it was thirty with traffic. I was shocked I didn’t get in a car wreck, as jittery as I was. Plus, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and what little had been in my stomach was now in John’s sink. My blood sugar was low and the adrenaline had sapped me.

  I distracted myself by admiring my knife-throwing skills. My father had insisted I do some kind of outdoor sport when I was young and since I had twisted an ankle playing basketball, got a concussion playing soccer, and had nearly suffocated from an asthma attack playing baseball, I’d asked for self-defense lessons. Learning how to throw knives had made me feel badass, even as the shortest kid in my grade. I never thought it was a skill I’d actually use, though.

  Lana had given me her address and garage code, and I clutched the knife I’d taken from John’s as I entered her house. I was terrified I’d find someone waiting to kill me—kill her—and I could barely hear as I crept through her kitchen from the garage, the blood was pounding in my ears so loudly.

  My palms grew sweaty and I switched the knife from one hand to the other so I could wipe them on my jeans. I could hear no one and the house felt empty, but I didn’t trust it. Why would Lana be spared when John, Terry, and Freyda hadn’t been?

  It took me an hour to search every cranny of Lana’s house, stepping slowly and silently around each corner, but I found no one. I was peeking behind a shower curtain when something touching my legs made me scream. (I was getting so good at screaming, I’d have to apply for a role in a horror movie soon.) But it was just a cat, blinking calmly as it looked up at me before winding around and through my legs.

  “It’s just a cat,” I muttered, hearing how out of breath I was from panic alone. If I didn’t calm down, I’d hyperventilate myself into blacking out, which would really suck.

  I went upstairs and was drawn to the room Lana must use as an office. A laptop sat on the desk, screensaver scrolling across the monitor. I stood looking at it. Trying to get on would be violating Lana’s privacy. Then again, these were extenuating circumstances.

  And no one was here to ambush Lana. Hmmm.

  That fact alone drew me closer until I sat down in the leather office chair. Toggling the mouse made the screensaver disappear and a log-in dialogue box appear.

  I had nothing with me to attempt a hack. None of my usual tools that I could use to bypass the security, or even just pull the hard drive and access it via another device. All I had . . . was Clark’s tiny USB drive he’d given me to plug into Jackson’s system.

  Digging it out of my pocket, I stared at it. I didn’t know if plugging it in would be a good thing . . . or if it would lead the bad guys right to me.

  The image of Clark, staring after me as I ran from John’s house, flashed through my mind. I had no reason to trust him, no logical reason, and yet . . .

  I plugged in the USB drive.

  Nothing happened for a moment, then the screen flickered. Just slightly, and if I hadn’t been watching so close, I wouldn’t have noticed. Whatever “they,” i.e., Clark et al., wanted to accomplish with Jackson, was no
w going to be with Lana instead.

  The cat was wrapping itself around my ankles again when I heard a footfall on the wooden stairs.

  I jumped to my feet, guilty as a teenager sucking vodka from their dad’s stash on a Saturday night. Could I be in a worse place than in her office? But it wasn’t Lana that came around the corner.

  “Jackson!”

  Emotion and relief overcame logic. I threw myself at him, clutching him as he caught me up in his arms.

  “Thank God,” he murmured in my ear, holding me so tight it was hard to breathe, but I didn’t mind. “You scared a decade off my life, leaving like that.”

  I was trying so hard not to cry that I couldn’t talk, and it took a massive amount of effort to get control of myself. When I could finally breathe again, I tipped my head back to look at him and opened my mouth to speak.

  But he was kissing me, his mouth hard and urgent, his tongue stroking mine with fevered intensity. I was overwhelmed. I could do nothing but hold on to him, standing on my very tiptoes as he kissed me. One hand in my hair, the other wrapped around my back. I felt safe for the first time all day.

  When he let me come up for air, I pried my eyes open, finding his dark gaze blazing as he looked at me. My limbs felt boneless, and I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t have crumpled in a heap if he hadn’t been holding me.

  “Umm . . . hi,” I managed.

  His lips twisted. “Hi.” Then they flatlined.

  We spoke at the same time.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “How did you find me?”

  I flinched at the barely leashed anger in his voice. “Lana told me to come here, plus I was worried she would be next.” I repeated my question. “How’d you find me?”

  “Process of elimination,” he said. “And I assumed you’d try to do something stupid and altruistic like try to protect the remaining members of the team.”

  I pouted a bit at stupid. “Some would say it was heroic,” I argued just under my breath.

  He gave me a look. “Lance’s car is also LoJacked.”