Page 112 of Trust

I ease the pressure enough to let her speak. “He is not here,” she begs. “Take anything, please. Just don’t hurt us.”

“Not what I asked.” I push her harder until the wood groans.

“He should be here any minute. Please—”

Tiny footsteps patter down the hall. I retreat and disappear from the doorway, sliding into the shadows with my gun raised. I keep the muzzle out of the child’s sight, but the angle is clear. If she doesn’t handle this right, someone’s getting hurt.

“Mommy?” the boy calls, voice small.

Megan bends, calmness a thin wire she forces into place. “Do you want to eat upstairs tonight and watch TV?” she asks, as if it’s the easiest plan in the world. The boy lights up and jumps in place. “Yay!”

“Only this once, okay? Because Mommy made a mess.”

She hustles a plate into his hands and shepherds him down the hall, telling him to close his door and crank up the volume. Clever. Hopefully, he’ll manage to stay put.

Back in the kitchen, I signal to the table. All the shades are drawn. No one can peer in. I methodically tie Megan to the chair at the head of the table, seal her mouth with duct tape so she won’t alert the neighborhood. The sound of the television upstairs swells through the ceiling.

I sit on the opposite side and study her. My pulse slows. This is where leverage lives and bargains begin.

“It's nothing personal,” I say, digging into the dinner she made. “Your husband’s involved with the wrong people, and I need some intel. The sooner he talks, the faster I leave. Sorry you got caught in the crossfire.”

I raise my hands in apology. She does not try to speak or tear herself loose. Her wary eyes are glued to the yellow flowers in the center of the table.

The last forkful is gone when the door opens. Michael’s face falls when he sees us.

“You should sit,” I tell him, waving the gun to underline the suggestion.

His gaze flicks up to the ceiling.

“He’s fine,” I say, rolling my eyes.

I stand to make him move. He looks ordinary, a man who blends effortlessly into a PTA meeting, his shirt tucked in too neatly and his tie cinched as if he never loosens it. His glasses are fogged from the cold, and he clutches his briefcase like a lifeline. A nagging thought creeps in: he might not know a thing. Doesn’t matter. Maybe he’ll surprise me. If he doesn’t, I’ll get some entertainment out of it. Either way, I win.

He looks more terrified than his wife as I bind him to my previous seat. I warn him to stay quiet for the sake of his son. He doesn’t make a sound.

“Tell me about the Board,” I say, deliberately setting my weapons on the table in a neat line in front of him.

“The Board of Regents?” he stammers.

“Sure, Mister White. The Board of Regents. What did you say your job was?”

I play along, already tasting the first hit.

“I lecture math at the university.”

His eyes dart from the knives to his wife. She doesn’t even twitch. Shock’s got her good. She’ll bounce back. Bet she’s tougher than he is. Understandable. She isn’t the one about to taste brass knuckles.

I slip them on, holding his panicked stare.

“I don’t rank high enough to have ever met one of them,” he says.

“Nah, not good enough.”

I swing once, making it count. His jaw takes it. Blood spatters the curtains in a spray of tiny red dots. He gags, fighting the reflex to cry out. Better not let his son hear. He is not built for this.

“I am telling the truth,” he gasps. “I have nothing to do with them. I teach math.”

I land another punch. This time his cheekbone cracks under the blow. He goes slack for a second. A single drop of crimson lands on his checkered shirt.