Page 31 of Trust

I didn’t respond, which only encouraged him.

“You talk about discipline and control like she’s one of your command. This isn’t combat.” He paused. “Let up a little. You were that kid once, remember?”

I didn’t argue, simply because I didn’t have a comeback. I’d already repaired that damn hoodie, hoping it would wash away the guilt. It’s intact again.

Cash’s words stuck. More than I cared to admit. I leaned back against the cabin, eyes on the shed, mind miles away. Back to cracked walls and kicked-in doors, to a home where company meant tension and noise meant danger. I don’t remember a mother, and my father was a mean drunk. My older sister raised me. She disappeared after I caught him putting out a cigarette on her arm because he didn’t like the meal she’d cooked. For years, I thought it was my fault. She might have stayed if I’d protected her more. Being only ten was never a valid excuse.

I learned to hit back before I learned to drive. Each passing year only made it worse. Violence was the only language that ever worked until I joined the military at eighteen and finally learned how to channel my rage, give it shape, purpose.

Perhaps Sara was never the spoiled princess I made her out to be. More likely, she’s been fighting a war no one bothered to notice, and unlike me, she doesn’t use her fists to fight. She resorts to words, to defiance, to stupid decisions, daring the world to stop her. But why?

I try to remember what I would’ve needed at her age. Probably someone who didn’t give me a hard time for every wrong move. Which makes me the exact opposite of what I’ve been to her so far.

I had friends. I had Cash.

As far as I can tell, she has no one.

Maybe I’m the one who needs to change first.

The next morning, I watch the feed longer than usual before I enter.

She’s awake, at least I think she is, but she hasn’t moved. I turn on the light. No acknowledgment when I sit on the edge of the bed behind her. I clear my throat.

“You know it doesn’t have to be like this, right?”

No answer.

“I’m sorry,” I continue, “about your father. About what he put you through. He pays me to keep you under control.” I say the last part with a huff.

She doesn’t turn around. Not that I expected it.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” I promise. “Not gonna tie you up, or feed you again, or humiliate you in any way. You don’t have to be in here. Not if I have your word no one gets hurt—including you.”

There’s the slightest shift, although I might be imagining it.

Knowing I won’t get more than that, I glance once more at her motionless form before heading out.

The lights stay on. She’s had enough darkness.

DEAL

Sara

For a long time after the door clicks shut, I stay still.

Chris’s footsteps fade, but the low buzz of the beam overhead remains. I lie on my side, eyes fixed on the void, tears slowly soaking into the mattress beneath my cheek in a constant stream. My mind refuses to cry, but my body needs to let go of the pressure.

His words loop in my head: You know it doesn’t have to be like this. I don’t understand why he said it.

I’m nowhere near trusting him, but what he said felt sincere. He doesn’t need to change anything at all. He could leave me to rot in here and get paid anyway. I doubt this arrangement with Richard depends on how I’m treated.

I sniff and wipe my face, then finally roll onto my back. Something soft brushes against my leg. At the foot of the bed, folded neatly like it hadn’t been through hell, lies my hoodie. I jerk upright and stretch out my arm, half convinced it’ll dissolve right before I can touch it. Have I lost it so badly I’m hallucinating?

No, it’s really there, the fabric soft under my hand. I lift it onto my lap, inspecting it. It’s clean. The tear is gone, repaired so seamlessly I wouldn’t know it had been there at all. I bury my face in it and breathe deep. It’s warm with the scent of peach and cotton clinging to its fibers. I cradle it against me. After days of total emptiness, there’s more than numbness or pain. A spark ignites deep within my soul where I believed all was dead.

When I lift my head, I spot a small stack of clothes. All mine. Except for the sneakers at the bottom. They’re exactly like the ones I wore when I came here, but I can tell they’re new. How did he manage? Hard to picture Prime delivering out here.

I straighten up slowly, my body protesting from every angle, but I’m not bothered. At the sink, I wash my face and finger-comb my hair. It’s ridiculous how much it helps to do the smallest things in this situation. Cleaning up and putting on fresh clothes brings a piece of me back. I’m human again.