Everything’s starting to make sense now, and I don’t like it one bit. Scratch that. I hate it. With a passion I usually save for human traffickers and terrorists.
“Wren, what did Rip find out about the shipment to Mik’s lab?” She reaches for my hand, and I thread our fingers and hold on tight.
“It was sent from the hotel the morning after she was attacked. Paid for with cash.”
“Fuck.”
“Hold your horses, Austin. There’s more. It cost 5,337 pesos to get that box to Maryland. So Rip searched all the hotels in the area for withdrawals between four and six thousand pesos that same morning. He got a hit.” She taps her screen, and the image of the Nozanita board vanishes, replaced with a grainy security camera image of Corey Larkin.
Mik sucks in a sharp breath. “Why would Corey send those to me? He didn’t even know if I was alive.”
“Maybe he did, sweetheart. All we know about Arturo and Martín’s whereabouts that day are that they kidnapped Li and Isaiah at noon. What if they checked the cliff at dawn and didn’t find you?” I cup her cheek, brushing my thumb along a fading bruise. “It makes sense. They went after your students when they thought you’d survived. One person’s easy to shut up—or discredit. Three? That’s a hell of a lot harder.”
I pull the USB drive out of my pocket and hold it up so Wren can see it. “This was in the box with samples from the hybrid orchids.”
“And?” Wren asks. “You haven’t plugged it in yet?” When I shake my head, she mutters, “Amateurs. Hang on.” She types for a full minute, and a black box with green type flashes on my screen for a split second before disappearing. “Okay. Plug it in. I just installed a secondary firewall in case there’s some sort of virus on there.”
Mik gapes at the screen. “How’d you learn all of this?”
“How’d you learn the proper way to handle toxic orchids?” Wren challenges, but she’s smiling. “My brain works a little differently from everyone else’s. Upside? Computers make total and complete sense to me. They’re logical. Easy to predict. To understand.”
“And the downside?” Mik frowns. “I mean, if you want to tell me.”
Wren runs her hand over her wrist, and a faint clicking carries over the call. “Massive, almost uncontrollable anxiety with some OCD—obsessive compulsive disorder—mixed in. I don’t leave home much. Heck, before I met Ry, the only places I felt truly comfortable were my apartment and Second Sight.”
“And now?”
“Our apartment, Second Sight, Hidden Agenda, a few friends’ places. My hair dresser.” She inclines her head, a hint of resignation in her voice. “I’m not agoraphobic. Not by a long shot. I go to the grocery store, we’ve taken a few weekend trips, that sort of thing. I take my meds every day and just…hope for the best.” Brightening, Wren adds, “I wouldn’t change it. Any of it. Anxiety sucks the big one, but I love what I do, and with Ry…everything’s…easier.”
“Okay, Wren. The drive’s plugged in. You want to take the lead?” I ask.
“Yep. Let’s see what Larkin sent you.” But when she tries to open the file, nothing happens. “Fudgsicles.“
“Fudgsicles?” Mik asks. “What the heck does that mean?”
“It’s Wren’s code for fuck. You two have that in common,” I say nudging Mik’s shoulder. “She doesn’t swear either.”
“Ido,” Wren says as she narrows her eyes at her screen. “Just very,veryrarely. My mom was a teacher.”
“My parents are Muslim,” Mik says quietly. “They never allowed swearing.” From her tone and the tension in her shoulders and back, she’s worried about Wren’s response, but the redhead just glances up at her.
“I have all sorts of replacements. Spit-snacks, crackerjacks, son of a biscuit, fudgsicles… Last time we were in Boston though, we went to this coffee shop and I heard a brand new one that might be my favorite so far.”
“What is it?” Mik asks.
“Son of a motherless goat.”
Mikayla chuckles and relaxes against me slightly. “I like it. All I ever use is dang and crap on a cracker.”
“Don’t discount the effectiveness of a good crap-cracker.” In the next breath, Wren says, “Shit.”
“Wren? What is it?” I’ve never heard her swear before, and according to Ry, she only lets loose with the s-word when she’s either royally pissed off or terrified.
“The data’s corrupted.”
Mik drops her head into her hands. “We had to disinfect the drive with a chlorine solution. Did we ruin it?”
“No, no, no.” Wren waves her hand, dismissing Mik’s worry. “If anything, I’d suspect heat damage. That’s about the only thing that’ll damage one of these drives. Hang on.” A few more keystrokes, and she sits back with a sigh. “I’m sending a courier to your house, Mik. He’ll be there in an hour to pick up the drive and fly it out to me in Seattle. Make sure you ask him for the password. It’s ‘Cracker Jack.’”
