Page 10 of Trust

The next half hour is a battle. I beg, plead, promise anything to get them to let me stay. I tell them I could finish school here, that I’d behave, that I’d never give them trouble.

“I promise,” I say over and over, the word like a lifeline. Promises matter. Sworn oaths, like the one Richard took when he stepped into office, don’t mean a thing. He betrays them, but I would never break my word.

“Wait...” Grandpa cuts in, his voice heavy. “You mean your father doesn’t know where you are?”

“I’ll be eighteen in a few hours,” I argue, desperation leaking through every word. “Who cares?”

The way they glance at each other, worry and doubt written all over their faces, guts me. A silent conversation I’m not part of. My heart curls in on itself. They’re slipping away from me.

I pull my last card. My hands tremble as I unfold Mom’s letter and put it on the table between us. “Please.”

Grandma reads with her lips pressed thin. Her eyes flick briefly toward Grandpa before she squeezes my hand. “Honey,” she sighs. “I’m so, so sorry. I know what this must sound like to you. But it was an accident. Your father wasn’t even in the vicinity.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not responsible—” I snatch the paper out of her hand.

She lowers her head. After a long exhale, she speaks again.

“Your mother didn’t always see things clearly—”

“Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t twist it.”

They share another look. A pit opens in my gut, swallowing my confidence. I shouldn’t have come. They’re not on my side.

Grandma must have known Mom wanted to come home to them. She wouldn’t have shown up here out of nowhere, planning to move in again. They were close. We came here every week. They talked for hours while I sat on the swing in the yard or did puzzles with my grandpa while his favorite show played in the background.

Maybe she didn’t tell them about what’s in the diary, but she would’ve confided that her life was falling apart. They had to sense she wasn’t all right. Still, they didn’t do anything. I begged back then too. All I got were birthday cards and the occasional invitation for Richard and me to those stiff, silent dinners. That’s it.

“Did you find the diary?” Grandma asks.

I hesitate to answer, wondering if I can actually trust them. “I took apart my whole closet... I found the letter.” That’s the truth I can share with them, and I hope she doesn’t ask any more questions.

“Stay here for now.” She nods, her expression softening as she exhales slowly. “Go upstairs, freshen up. When you’re ready, we’ll make dinner together, all right?”

My vision clears as the blur of panic recedes. They’re letting me stay, and I won’t make them regret it. Maybe I was wrong and they are the people I always thought they were. Maybe my father also had a hand in preventing them from taking me in. Who knows. I ignore the alarm bells ringing in my head and get up to hug them both.

I’d love to see my father’s face when he realizes I’m gone. Boarding school, my ass.

Before I hit the shower, I unpack my clothes in the outdated closet. It still wears the faded ghosts of ‘90s boy band stickers, edges curled and peeling, like someone tried to scratch them off but gave up halfway.

My mom’s childhood room is mine now. I love that. It was turned into a guest room after she moved out, but I doubt anyone besides her and me has ever slept here.

Sitting on the bed, I browse through her book once more. All those missing girls. Does Richard have something to do with this? Do my grandparents know? There’s no entry about them, not even the smallest note. If she’d suspected them of something, she would’ve written it down, right? And she wouldn’t have planned to come back.

Still, I’m not ready to share it. Not until I’m sure.

I scan the room. The cliché hiding spot’s a bust. There are no loose floorboards under the rug. Then I spot the mirror above the vanity. It’s old with a thick frame. On its back, a shallow recess in the panel is big enough to hold the diary. It’s far from foolproof, but it’ll do for now.

The kitchen smells of comfort when I come down. Grandpa is setting the table while Grandma is working the stove. The sight makes me ache with nostalgia. But when she hands me the bowl of sauce, her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Grandpa’s hand trembles faintly as he lays out the forks. I pretend not to notice. It hurts to see him getting old. I cling to the good: spaghetti, ice cream, the sound of laughter that used to live here.

We eat together, sauce thick and sweet, noodles soaking it up. I stuff my mouth and grin, pretending it’s ten years ago and life never splintered. For a moment, I let myself believe it.

Grandma hums while filling bowls with ice cream for dessert. I’m almost done slurping the last noodle when the lion knocker thuds.

Instead of making me giggle, the clang now jolts through me. My hand tightens around the fork. I tell myself it’s no big deal. It could be a neighbor or a delivery. But then Grandpa’s face falls. His eyes fill with tears, and he looks close to breaking apart, the way he did at the funeral.

“Grandpa?” I ask, putting my fork down and grasping his hand. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, but his gaze drifts toward the hallway. I follow it, a brick of unease in my stomach.