Code

CHAPTER 24

MY PHONE VIBRATED and blared Coldplay.

Sighing, I put the figurine aside and glanced at the clock on my bedroom wall. Hours of examination, yet I was nowhere. And Friday was already half gone.

I glanced at the iPad, amazed it still functioned with a hole through its gut. The clock read 33:01:06. A quarter of our time gone, and still no leads.

Grabbing my iPhone, I frowned. The caller ID simply read “private.” I debated letting it roll to voicemail, but yielded to curiosity.

“This is Tory.”

“Tory Brennan?” A male voice.

“Yes.” Cautious. I’d been pranked before, and had no intention of falling for more Bolton Prep immaturity.

“This is Eric Marchant at the CPD crime lab. Someone named—” papers shuffled in the background, “—Jason Taylor left me a message. I’m not sure how he got my office number, but it doesn’t matter. He sent something for analysis.”

“Mr. Marchant!” I stood and began to pace. “Thanks so much for calling.”

“Not a problem, though I must admit the request was a bit odd. I received a cotton swab coated with an unknown substance. It was nothing more than diesel fuel.”

Diesel fuel? Shoot, dead end. You could buy that anywhere.

Marchant’s voice sounded tinny, probably coming from a speakerphone. He had a clipped, precise way of speaking. I imagined a short, bookish man in a tweed jacket with a pocket protector.

“There was something about a cash register?” Marchant prompted.

Sudden thought.

This man was a ballistics expert. Last night, a contraption had fired at us. Someone could’ve been killed. Access to Marchant’s expertise was incredibly fortunate.

A plan formed in my head.

“Jason must’ve been confused, sir. I have a serious issue.” Adding a quaver to my voice. “Someone tried to kill my dog.”

“My goodness.” There was a soft click as Marchant lifted the receiver. “Have you filed an incident report?”

“I haven’t told anyone.” I opted for damsel in distress. “My neighborhood is very isolated, and the local cops hate coming out here. They don’t care at all.”

“Shameful.” Irritation tinged Marchant’s voice. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised. Some of our more remote sheriffs wouldn’t investigate a fire in their own station house. But why do you think someone wants to harm your pet?”

“My dog’s half wolf, and a few weeks ago these rednecks threatened to shoot him.” I invented details on the fly. “Last night, my friends and I found something buried in the dunes. A metal contraption, with two short barrels. We accidentally set it off, and I was nearly hit.”

“The device fired at you?” Incredulous. “A projectile weapon?”

“Yes, sir. I think it’s a gun, but I’m not sure.”

“Of all the irresponsible—” I could almost see Marchant straighten in his chair. “Could you locate a bullet fired by the weapon?”

“Oh yessir! I have the weapon and two slugs.”

“Excellent. Did you retrieve any shell casings?”

Why hadn’t I thought of that? “No sir, but I could possibly look again.”

“No need.” Pages flapped. “I’m tied up today, but if you bring those items to me tomorrow, I’d be willing to take a look.”

Jackpot. “Of course. Could you give me the crime lab’s street address?”

“Certainly. Email emarchant@cpd.gov and I’ll send directions. That way I’ll have your contact info.”

“Absolutely.” I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d just commandeered a ballistics expert to help fight the Gamemaster. Not too shabby. “Thank you so much!”

“Happy to help. I’d like to find whoever set this weapon. It’s an incredibly stupid and dangerous thing to do.”

I thanked him again, hung up, and sent the email.

Marchant replied a few minutes later: Mind is slipping. Lab closed on Saturdays. Could we meet at Twin Ponds Rifle Range? It’s just north of Mount Pleasant on Highway 17. Close to where I live. 10:00 a.m.?

Hmmm. Trickier. We’d need a car. But I wasn’t about to blow this opportunity.

Can do, I replied. See you there.

Then I shot a text message to the Virals.

We’d caught a break.

Now to take advantage.

My grand strategy lasted less than ten minutes.

I was hustling for the door when Kit stopped me cold. “We’re having dinner with Whitney tonight. No exceptions.”

Ugh. At least he’d warned me this time. “When?”

“Six o’clock.” Kit’s hazel eyes grew plaintive. He scratched the curly brown hair above his ear. “She’s, uh, bringing a picnic and we’re eating on the beach.”

“The beach,” I repeated. “With the sand. And the wind. And the bugs.”

Kit adopted his long-suffering expression. “Come on Tor, be a sport. It’ll be fun.”

“Right. Fun!”

I headed back upstairs and sent another text. I’d be late to my own meeting.

The boys cracked a few jokes, but agreed to wait in the bunker. I’d get there as soon as I could.

At six sharp, Kit’s voice boomed up the stairwell. “Let’s go!”

Imploring various deities for strength, I trudged down and followed Kit out the door. Coop moved to join us, but I gently shoved him inside. Sadly, no dogs allowed.

A white canopy pavilion fluttered on the beach. Beneath it, fluffy cushions surrounded a sky blue tablecloth. Places were set for three.

The weather was smiling on Whitney—light breeze, sunset sky, temperature hovering at seventy. Some women had all the luck.

Our hostess was removing covered dishes from a cooler. She wore a snug tangerine sundress that accentuated her curves. Her hair was up, one of the few times I could recall it that way. She smiled at our approach.

“Best behavior.” Kit spoke from the side of his mouth.

“This looks like an Usher video,” I whispered back.

“Hello, hell-o!” Whitney waved a hand at the setup. “Do you like?”

“Wonderful!” Kit smiled ear to ear. Looked at me expectantly.

“How great.” I feigned enthusiasm. “What a cute idea.”

Whitney dropped a curtsy, seemingly destined to be a Real Housewife someday. I sat cross-legged on the cushion she indicated. The sun was low, and directly in my face. Naturally.

“Isn’t this just a hoot?” Whitney began dishing out sides from various containers. Corn pudding. Okra. Green beans. Caprese salad. Her usual Lowcountry fare. That, at least, was fine by me.

We got all the way to the boiled shrimp before she pissed me off.

“Tory, sweetheart. Are you sure the boys you selected are right for the ball?”

The food had put me in an indulgent mood. “Yes, Whitney. They’ll be fine.”

“It’s just—” dabbing her mouth with a blue gingham napkin, “—Jason’s a fine choice, of course. But the other three.” She spread her hands. “They aren’t even part of cotillion.”

I set down my fork. “They don’t have to be. I can invite whoever I want.”

“But don’t you think you’d be better off with escorts who are familiar with the event? Boys who know the protocol. Or you could just take Jason, and that way—”

“Enough.” I held Whitney’s eyes. “Ben, Hi, and Shelton are my best friends. If I’m having a party, they’re invited. Always. That’s my choice. Understand?”

“Of course.” Kit arm-wrapped the airhead, who seemed about to say more. “It’s completely your decision, kiddo.”

“Certainly.” Whitney did her best to sound cheery. “I’m sure all will work out for the best.”

Issue settled, we resumed our meal. The sun melted into the western horizon, throwing an artist’s palette of reds and oranges across the harbor. I was forced to admit the picnic wasn’t a horrible idea.

I was patting my own back for handling the matter so maturely when disaster struck.

“Tory.”

Kit and Whitney had put down their utensils. He was holding her hand.

“Mmm-hmm?” Mouth stuffed with shrimp.

“We’d like to talk to you about something.”

I nearly choked. We? Not good.

“Whitney and I have been discussing our future.” Kit gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Last summer, when we considered leaving Charleston, Whitney made the difficult decision to go with us. Thankfully, we were all able to stay.”

Deer in headlights.

Cornered suspect.

Mouse in the open, owls circling.

“That experience brought us all closer together.”

Kit seemed unable to get to the point. I was very, very close to vomiting.

“We think it’s time our relationship progressed to the next level. So, with your permission, I’d like to ask Whitney to—”

“Oh God.”

“—move in with us,” he finished in a rush.

First reaction—he didn’t say get married! My chest unfroze a tick.

Second reaction—oh no. Oh please, no.

“Won’t it be so much fun?!” Whitney clapped her hands like a preschooler. “We can finally spend real time together. Become closer. I know your mother isn’t with us anymore, but I’d like to—”

Something snapped inside me.

“How dare you mention my mother?” Quiet. Cold. “What, do you think you can replace her? That it’s an open position, like a McDonald’s fry cook?”

Whitney’s eyes widened. “Sweetheart, no! I only meant—”

“Meant what?” Anger made my voice shrill. “That you’d jump right in and fix me? Be my new best friend? Take care of me when I’m sick, or scared?”

Whitney stared, speechless. Part of me knew I was being unfair, even cruel, but I’d never been more furious. I couldn’t stop the words.

“You’re not my mother, and you never will be.” I shot to my feet. “Next time try thinking before you speak.”

“Tory!” Kit barked. “Watch your tone! Whitney wasn’t implying she’d take anyone’s place. You know that.”

“Oh, spare me.” My eyes burned. “At least you finally had the balls to say something. I figured I’d just keep finding Whitney’s things in our house until one day, poof, she’d never leave!”

Kit flushed scarlet. Whitney burst into tears.

Escape. Now.

“I have to go.” I stormed back down the beach.

“Tory, wait!” Whitney struggled to rise and follow me.

“Let her go.” Kit looped a restraining arm around her waist. “It’ll be okay.”

I broke into a trot. Over the dunes, across the common, and up my front steps. My hands shook as I twisted the doorknob.

Coop trailed me up to my bedroom.

The door shut, then waterworks.

Head buried in my pillows, I let myself sob.

I’d never felt more alone.