Free Lie for Me by Romily Bernard

never seen before. If Tate’s coming, he’s late.
    â€œNice,” Joe says at last, exiting the final file and looking at me. “Good to know Paul doesn’t lie about everything.”
    I shrug, settling against the wall as Joe explains the scam.
    â€œI want to make sure we have distance on this,” he says, face starting to flush as he talks about the targets. “Heather will call them up and get their email information.” Joe gives the thin girl—Heather—a shove and she moves over just before Joe collapses into her seat.
    â€œIt’ll reassure them that we’re not asking for money up front,” he continues. “We’ll direct them to the website and tell them to input their donations there.”
    Nice. It makes it awfully easy to steal stuff when people just give it to you. It’s not a bad phishing scam actually. On paper, the charity organization looks good—nice website, caller ID shows the charity’s name—and Heather has a remarkably smooth voice for someone who looks like a train wreck. They’ve done their homework and we’ll have to work fast, but by the time complaints roll in and the police get evidence, we’ll be long gone.
    â€œAnd,” Joe adds, “when we send them their email confirmations, when those rich bastards click to print off their donation receipt, you’ll have them, Wick.”
    Wick’s gaze dips to the floor and sticks. I don’t get it. If she’s really working with them, shouldn’t she look more . . . into it? What’s with the hesitancy?
    â€œGriff here’s a whiz with firewalls,” Joe says.
    Wick’s head jerks up, waves of red hair sweeping against her cheekbones. “I can’t do this, Joe. I’m already under surveillance.”
    â€œThat thin cop?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œHe’s not a problem yet. No warrant, right? No security breaches?” Joe tips forward and I watch Wick’s fingers curl into the couch cushions. To hold herself back? Or to keep herself from running? “’Cause you of all people should know. Well?” Joe’s tone climbs. He’s getting pissed off, and without even realizing it, I’ve pushed away from the wall. “Have the cops traced you?”
    Wick’s mouth twitches. A smile? A laugh? I can’t tell. She swallows. “No, they haven’t traced me.”
    â€œThen we’re good—at least for a little while longer.” Joe sits back against the chair, propping both hands on his belly. “Don’t go soft on me, Wick, or I’ll have to toughen you up. There are all sorts of ways to hurt you now, and I remember how your old man used to do it.”
    Disgust ripples through me, but Wick nods like this is no big deal—except her fingers are still dug deep into the couch cushions, knuckles going gray. I don’t recognize this girl. I’ve known her for three years and I’ve never seen her look so . . . ruined.
    I didn’t think she could be ruined.
    â€œYou might think because your dad’s on the run that you’re beyond his reach,” Joe continues. “But you never will be. He’ll always have me and I’ll always have access to his people. I will fix you so you have nothing, understand? Do you understand ?”
    I’m moving before I know what I’m doing, stepping toward him—toward her —but Wick has eyes only for Joe.
    â€œYeah,” she says, and I stop, check myself. Wick didn’t even notice I moved, but Joe did.
    Â 
    We finish about an hour later. My second exit from Joe’s house is pretty much the same as the first: he points to the door, we go. Wick stops on the porch to arrange her messenger bag and I use the opportunity to pause next to her, sneaking a sideways glance and realizing, as usual, she isn’t looking back at me.
    Probably just as well. This girl should be nothing more than a