Page 100 of Trust

Cash and I never got a chance to talk about last night, about whether anything went on between him and Sara after he took her to bed. My cameras don’t cover that angle. If they took things further, it could explain the edge in him now. It could also make him more dangerous in how he acts on his plans. At some point, I’ll have to decide how far I’ll let him go. Threatening families? Forcing Sara to stay against her will? Not happening.

After Sara hands me back the weapon, she excuses herself upstairs.

“Guns? Seriously?” Cash clearly isn’t thrilled about pairing Sara with Glocks. “If you think she’s going to return to a life where she needs this, maybe we stop pretending she should go home at all, don’t you think?”

“I want her to have options, a normal life, if that’s still possible. Teaching her to shoot is a skill she hopefully never needs, but better safe than sorry, don’t you think?”

“Hopefully? Hope isn’t a strategy, you know that.”

“Tomorrow’s election day and I scheduled a call with her father. That decides everything. Best case, she’s free to go home safely. Worst case, we all lose.”

He’s not stupid. He knows what this means. For him, it’s the opposite. If the plan works, Sara won’t be a part of his life anymore. If it fails, she stays close. Just not for the right reasons.

He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Still willing to give me that last night with her?”

“I’m not giving it to you,” I say. “I’m giving it to her.”

◆◆◆

Outside, fall carries a crisp bite. I set a single paper target at roughly fifteen feet. Close enough that she can appreciate the hit, far enough that it’s not trivial.

“You ready?” I ask.

She nods, her grin brimming with anticipation.

Sara doesn’t know about the Board or the consequences of being marked. For now, she doesn’t need to, especially if we’re not even sure it’s true. To her, this is just another new skill to master.

Approaching the table, she studies the gun, her mind clearly working through each detail. Small hands wrap around the grip, skin blanching where the cold metal meets her palm. She lifts it carefully. There’s respect in the way she holds it.

“Rule one,” I instruct. “Barrel pointed downrange. This one doesn’t have an external safety switch like some other pistols. Finger off the trigger until you’re ready. Treat every gun as if it’s loaded. If you point a gun, you have to be willing to shoot. That responsibility sits on you alone.”

She watches my hands and the calm in my movements, glancing at Cash behind me. He’s watching us with that calculating look he gets when he’s measuring risk. His jaw is set. He believes we should be removing the causes rather than teaching her to meet them head-on. He thinks arming her is an acceptance that danger will exist. Danger always exists, a fact he should know.

I move close enough to adjust her stance. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees soft. Lean in. Breathe from your belly.”

She inhales and tries it. Her body settles a degree. The first pull makes her flinch. The report cracks through the clearing and she jumps. The round tears through the paper and flutters the target. It’s off-center, far from perfect. But it lands, and she stands straighter.

“You hit it,” I tell her.

She looks surprised and then pleased. Her smile unfolds slowly, brightening her features. Her chest rises faster, no sign of discomfort. If anything, she wants to go again.

Cash stands back, arms crossed, jaw clenched through the entire lesson. I bet every part of him itches to interrupt, to tell Sara there’s another way, a better one, a safer one. But he’s just as captivated by her eagerness to master this as I am.

On her second shot, the impact lands closer to the middle. Each round is a lesson she owns. Her stance steadies. Her hands remember the corrections. By the fourth magazine, she’s breathing low. Her posture is centered, her face lit with the fierce glow of someone perfecting a new language.

“Again,” she demands.

“You sure?” I ask, squinting at her. “You’ve been at it a while.”

“I’m fine, I can go again,” she says, sensing where I’m going.

She’s gripping the handle more forcefully than she needs to, and her knuckles are red, the tips of her fingers flushed with that worrying shade of blue-tinged cold, close to shaking.

“Show me your hands,” I say, stepping forward.

She looks confused for a second but holds them out. They’re ice-cold.

I take them gently and start rubbing warmth back into them. Her skin is pale against mine, and the chill of it seeps past my calluses.