Page 107 of Trust

The sound shatters everything. Dizziness washes over me. The blood drains from my face.

It rings again.

Chris reaches for it, sliding his thumb across the screen. “Whitmore,” he says, putting it on speaker.

“Mr. Stix.” My father’s slick politician’s voice oozes out of the speaker. Rage twists through me, leaving nausea in its wake. “How’s my daughter?”

Chris glances at me. “Ask her yourself. You’re on speaker.”

“Sara?” my father says, sounding relieved.

I inhale deeply. “Hi, Dad.” My voice is flat. The bench vibrates in sync with my leg.

“Are you all right?” There’s genuine concern in his voice.

“Mm-hmm.”

It’s all I get out before I stand up to go inside.

“Talk to you soon, okay?” is the last thing he says before the door shuts.

In the kitchen I brace my hands on the table and concentrate on breathing, forcing myself to stay present instead of smashing the nearest thing into pieces. Wasn’t that the point of all this? Control?

I steel myself to leave this place for good, not just with my feet, but with everything I have become.

Memories surge. I picture the three of us at the table, eating, washing up afterward. The ordinary life I didn’t know I ached for.

I tuck the image away. Maybe one day it’ll make me smile without barbed wire squeezing around my heart.

My gaze catches on the far-left cabinet, and Cash’s words echo back. There’s something for you. He didn’t say it outright, but the message was clear: find it without Chris around. The thought prickles at the back of my neck.

I glance into the empty living room. Chris is outside, talking. I hurry to the cabinet and sink to my knees, curiosity getting the better of me. The key slides into the lock and turns effortlessly.

At first, everything looks normal. Towels, sponges, cleaner. There’s a thin strip of clay-like material pressed into the wood. Wires snake from it into a small black box tucked behind the hinge. Whatever this is, I can’t imagine that’s what I’m looking for. I reach to the back. Empty. Annoyance flares. Then, on a last impatient rummage between the towels, my fingers close on a folder and pull it out. It’s beige, unlabeled.

I stand and set it on the table, lifting the cover as if it might explode. A police emblem sits at the top of the first page. Beneath it, most of the text is obscured by a handwritten note, several names listed in dark ink. My breath catches. G. Tate, P. Mendoza, M. White, D. Kane. The room tilts, my pulse roaring in my ears. What the hell is this? I slide the note to the side. The words underneath hit like a punch to the gut.

Case Status: Sealed.

It’s the police file from Mom’s accident.

A wave of sickness rolls over me. My knees wobble as I sink into the chair.

The first two pages are police reports from the crash site. Nothing new, just details. Mom’s car, deployed airbags, white powder clinging to everything. Every mention of her is blacked out by thick censoring strokes, reducing her to a silhouette.

The next set of pages looks almost the same but isn’t. The formatting is identical. The words are not. The black marks are gone. It’s a rewritten version, this time including a body trapped in the wreckage.

My fingers shake as I flip to the medical report. “No vital signs upon arrival.”

Tears blur the words. I’m crying. Drops slide off my chin and land in tiny splashes on the paper.

The autopsy follows:

“Multiple blunt force injuries consistent with high-impact motor vehicle collision. Notable contusions and abrasions across thoracic and cranial regions.”

Half the terminology is foreign to me, but enough is clear. The edge of a picture peeks out underneath.

Slowly, I draw it out.