Connor offered his hand for Trevor to inspect. It was sore, but there was hardly a mark. “You know,” Trevor said as he rubbed the muscles of Connor’s wrist gingerly, “This isn’t what your hand looked like before.”
“Before?”
“When you came home, your knuckles were bruised and swollen, but not like this.”
“This was from one punch. Peter was beaten up.”
“So were you. The lawyer I’m working with called in an expert. None of your injuries were documented after the arrest, and only your knuckles and hands were photographed for evidence. The expert says the wounds on your hands weren’t caused by punches.”
Connor studied the concentrated look on Trevor’s face as he spoke and then looked at his barely marked hand. “What did he say caused it?”
“Blunt force trauma. He showed me pictures of other similar injuries. It most resembled people whose hands had been stomped on.” Trevor placed the ice pack over Connor’s knuckles.
Connor needed a few seconds to be able to swallow. “My fingers would have broken if that was what happened.”
“It wasn’t from you hitting anyone,” Trevor repeated. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“No.”
“Is your head okay?”
“It’s fine.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Tired?”
“Trevor, I’m fine,” Connor said, letting sharpness into his voice. It drew Trevor’s gaze from his hand to his face.
They sat in silence for a few seconds before Trevor spoke. “So, where do you want to go?”
Connor cast him a questioning look.
“I know you well enough by now, Connor, to know that if I don’t bring you there myself, you’ll find your own way. And I’m sure you find me extremely annoying, but after what Laurence just told me, I’ll take you hating me if it keeps you in my sight where I know you’re safe.”
Connor leaned back and stared out the windshield. “I don’t hate you.” He waited a few beats before continuing. “I don’t understand any of it.”
“We’ll figure it out, I promise. And I’ll keep you safe.”
Connor’s throat got tight. It wasn’t just that Trevor was earnest that caught him; it was that he believed him. Trevor meant it. His phone buzzed, and Connor dug it out, blinking away the stinging in his eyes. He didn’t know why his bottom lip trembled or why he felt like crying when he hadn’t shed a tear in longer than he could remember—but his chest swelled with emotion threatening to bulldoze his controlled exterior. The part that feigned disinterest in the world had long been broken down by Trevor and Laurence, and now the part that hid his inner emotions was crumbling, too.
The message on his phone distracted him.
Connor showed it to Trevor. “Here’s the address. Peter’s the only person I can think of who can tell me what happened that night.” Austin had made it clear that he wouldn’t talk, and Connor wouldn’t trust anything he said even if he did.
Trevor took the phone and inputted the address into the car’s GPS. The route came up as four hours. “Why don’t you try nap? Nick said you were falling asleep as soon as you left the house.”
“Of course he did. Just when I started to like him…what else did he say?”
“That he can’t stand how Laurence copies you.”
Connor snorted.
Trevor raised an eyebrow. “I’m quite of the same mind…you’ve turned Laurence into a proper little accomplice.”
“As if. He only does what he feels like.”
