Page 12 of Trust

I stay low in the driver’s seat, eyes fixed on her silhouette in the dim gap between two low-glowing streetlamps as she unlocks the old bike she stole. Smart, how she stays in the shadows where the light doesn’t quite reach. She glances around, cautious but lacking the training to spot me.

I wait until she’s half a block down before I start the car, rolling behind her, keeping distance. I kill the headlights when she takes the back roads. We zigzag through the sleeping town, a hunter and his mark.

She’s heading toward the venue. The rally’s tomorrow. Or rather today; it’s already way past midnight. What the hell are you up to, princess?

I park far enough away to stay off the radar, but close enough to observe her, melting into the night. The darkness is damp. My boots barely make a sound on the worn pavement.

After leaving the bike by a tree, she squeezes through a break in the fence, moving swiftly. No doubt, she knows exactly where she’s going.

Where the hell is security? Amateurs.

I find a good spot behind the row of vendor tents and keep watch through a slit in the canvas. It takes me a sec to register what she’s doing. It’s spray paint. The red slashes across the stage wall speak louder than her voice ever could. LIAR! MURDERER! GOVERNOR? This isn’t teenage vandalism. This is a declaration, and it reads like a slogan.

A laugh tumbles out before I can swallow it. Brave little princess, throwing stones at giants.

After taking a moment to admire her work, she rushes over to the tech booth without making a sound. Something small and metallic glints in her hand. She plugs it into the mixing console. A USB drive, perhaps. The pale light from the monitor illuminates her features, giving her face a ghostlike glow as she messes with the equipment. Maybe she’s trying to plant a video. That girl has ideas. How did she gain access? I’m almost impressed by her focus as I imagine how the scenario would play out if she succeeded with her plan.

But that’s not going to happen. A flashlight beam cuts through the dark when a lone cop does his rounds. Bad luck for both of them.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

She abandons her task, eases out of the booth, and strides straight toward him. He keeps his eyes on her, not the blood-red truth dripping across the wall behind him.

I can’t make out her words, but I see his face. He’s not buying it. A minute later, the cuffs click shut. She doesn’t struggle, doesn’t argue. She lets it happen, and I’ll be damned if that isn’t a hint of satisfaction flashing across her face as they pass.

Doesn’t he recognize her?

I return to my car, observing the scene from the rearview mirror. She’s handing herself to me on a silver platter.

I tap out a message: All set.

Then I turn the key.

“Walk into my grasp, princess,” I murmur. “Couldn’t have planned it better myself.”

◆◆◆

The police station hasn’t changed since the last time I stepped through these doors: washed-out brick, the faint smell of burnt coffee, and the kind of lighting that makes everyone appear guilty. A sleepy officer yawns at the front desk, trying hard to stay awake. He stiffens when I ask for the chief.

“It’s four in the morning.”

“Call him.” I don’t raise my voice. “You wanna keep your job? You call him.” I lean against the counter and scan the back for red hair. I don’t see any. The guy hesitates, not sure what to do. I gesture toward the phone. “Tell him, Stix is here,” I say, fixing my gaze on him, waiting.

Eventually, he picks it up, handling it like it might bite.

It rings, and rings. Then, a few clipped words, and his face hardens. He nods and hangs up. “You can wait in his office.”

Funny how convenient it is to have people owing you.

When Ed finally shows up, he greets me with a sour expression. “So, you’ve finally come to collect.”

He hovers in the threshold, cautious, waiting for me to speak. Not wasting time on small talk, I tell him who his rookie cop managed to arrest. The blood drains from his face. He stares at me like I tossed a live grenade on his desk.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, already fumbling for his cell.

His knuckles whiten around the device as he paces the room. Leaning back, I watch him sweat, almost amused by the way his composure unravels. I’ve seen war prisoners break with more dignity. Someone should tell him it’s just a job. No need to fuss like that. Power does that to weak men. The more they gain, the harder they cling to it. The mayor gave him that badge as easily as he could take it away. Arresting his daughter mid-campaign without informing him instantly? Reason enough. Works in my favor.

The call’s short. Harder than necessary, he sets his phone down on the desk in front of me. His hand lingers on it as thoughts race behind his eyes. “She’s in the interrogation room, cuffed like some shoplifting teen.” His voice grits out the last word, barely keeping it together.