Page 108 of Brazen Criminals

Chapter 54

RJ

OpeningalltheprogramsI used to set up the audio transfer, I carefully delete them, wiping them, re-imaging my machine just in case.

I should feel proud—I leveled up my skills in ways I never thought possible over one weekend.

But Clara is still in her room and I’m itching to see her, to listen to her voice, to tell her how impressed I was, how brave she was.

Our girl.

The last thing I wipe are the copies of the videos I grabbed from Bryce’s computer—the ones of her. I only watched enough to figure out who they were, what they were. Clara, on her knees, naked and begging for forgiveness.

I delete them individually, a strange, necessary ritual, to prove to myself they are truly gone.

Our girl.

We’ll keep her safe.

Chapter 55

Jansen

Thebuzzinghasfadedto a dull ache. My head is hollow. I know I’m going to bottom out sometime soon, I just hope I can cuddle with Clara tonight—she gives me just enough of a buzz to keep me from going full drop. I don’t like myself much when I bottom out.

I click on my turn signal, navigating away from the sirens and lights, a smile on my face. Bryce was marched out in cuffs just a minute ago. Good riddance.

I’m humming one of my sister’s bluegrass songs as I drive, the physical buzz from my own voice tricking me into keeping going. All I want when I get back is to curl up on that stupid floor mattress, watch a movie, and maybe get annoyed at Clara’s hair tickling my nose. It sounds perfect.

I’m almost home when I glimpse Trips leaning against a brick wall on the edge of campus. I pull over and roll down my window. “Hey, Trips!” I yell, grinning.

If he’s already out of jail, then the rest of the plan went down like clockwork, or an airport, or some other perfectly organized thing with many moving pieces. I might be too tired for analogies.

Trips blinks in my direction, shakes his head a few times before he pushes off the wall and trots to my car, not even looking for traffic.

Two horns blare as he slides into my passenger seat. “Fuck,” he says, laying his head back, his eyes already closed.

“Dude. What happened to you?”

“I’ve been in fucking jail, you bastard. Leave me alone.”

I check the street, find a hole in traffic, and navigate back onto the road. “I know you’ve been in jail. We got you out. Why are you so—” I look at him, sprawled beside me, his eyelids flickering as he tries to force them open. “Are you sick?”

“No, I’m fucking exhausted. I haven’t slept in—” he squints at my clock “—why the fuck are the numbers dancing?”

The numbers are not dancing. “It’s 6:32, Trips.”

“Well, I woke up before seven yesterday. You do the math. I can’t see straight, let alone do numbers.”

“You’re telling me the great financier Archibald Clarence Westerhouse the Third can’t do simple addition?” I grin at him. He flips me off, his head settling into the headrest and his eyelids losing to gravity.

“Just get me to my fucking bed, jackass.”

“At your service.”

He stills, but his mouth continues to move. “Why didn’t anyone come get me?”

I shrug, then realize he can’t see me. “We weren’t sure when you’d be released. We thought you’d call when you got out.”

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