Page 29 of Tango
“What are we looking at?” I question as I step up behind Tucker.
Neither of them has said a word since they read whatever message came through on their phones. Tucker just grabbed his laptop and took a seat at the dining room table while Dylan moved to his right side.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Tucker replies, then pulls up an email with a video attached. I lean in closer as he makes the video larger, only to find myself staring down at security footage from Web Safe.
“That’s the server room,” I reply. It’s grainy. But I’d know that room anywhere. Hope surges through my system. Are we about to find proof that someone is dirty? Is this somehow going to free me from running for my life?
Tucker hits play.
Seconds tick by with nothing, and then—Ramiro sprints into view of the camera. No. Grief hits me square in the chest, nearly knocking me back a step. This is from the day he died.
I come into view of the camera, dark hair braided tightly over my shoulder.
“That’s not right,” I say. “My hair wasn’t braided.” Even as I speak, I watch in absolute horror as the video version of me raises her weapon at Ramiro and fires. Bang. Bang.
He falls backward onto the ground, hitting it while I raise the gun in my hand toward the camera, and fire again.
The screen goes blank.
The whole thing takes all of five seconds, but those seconds contain the power to erase my entire life. Even though the only truth is that we were in the server room together the night he died.
“No. That’s not right.” I step back.
Dylan and Tucker both turn toward me, their expressions furious, as though I’m enemy number one.
“Looked pretty clear to me,” Dylan says. “You killed your friend. I wouldn’t want to tell the truth about it, either. You had to know that we’d figure it out though. So what was your plan?”
Tucker is quiet.
“No. None of that is right. My hair wasn’t braided. I had a former foster mom who braided it so tight my brain felt like it was going to pop, so I never braid my hair. I hate it. And I would never have hurt Ramiro. Someone manipulated that video. You have to believe me.” My voice cracks with barely contained emotion.
Tucker doesn’t answer, just shifts his attention back to the phone. “The email was forwarded to Ramiro’s uncle from someone at Web Safe. It’s being sent to the police right now, which means every agency in the country is coming for you.”
My stomach churns, nausea burning me up. This cannot be happening. They’re framing me so they can bury the potential data breach. “This cannot be happening,” I mutter aloud. “Give me that video, and I’ll prove it’s a fake.”
“Hand over evidence to you so you can manipulate it? Not a chance,” Dylan replies.
I glare at him. “If I’d killed Ramiro, do you really think I would have gone back to save my parents? Or that I would have let both of you walk in here?”
Dylan turns to Tucker. “Any sign that video was tampered with?”
“I need my desktop. It has better computing power.”
“Where is it? Let’s go get it,” I say, desperate to get to the bottom of this. I adore Ramiro’s family. And now they’re all going to think I murdered him.
“In Texas.”
“Oh.” Of course it is. Which means I’ll have to trust them enough to leave this place with them. “Is that where my parents are?”
“Yes.” Tucker looks at Dylan.
“I didn’t kill him.”
“You understand that this footage says otherwise, right? And unless I can prove you didn’t kill him?—”
“If you prove it’s legitimate, then feel free to turn me in. But I’m telling you that it’s not. And if you can’t prove it, I can. I’m betting my life on it.” Panic thrums through my veins. I need them to believe me. Because if they don’t, I’ll lose the only semi-allies I have in this fight.
If the leak that Ramiro found is as bad as he seemed to think it is, it will cost thousands of lives—at least—and bankrupt more businesses than I can count.
