Page 44 of Trust

The sound of his engine fades.

She’s trouble.

I knew she was, just a different kind than I thought.

QUESTIONS

Sara

Nothing moves behind me. Footsteps don’t come. Voices stay away. Good, I can fall apart without an audience.

I sit on the mattress. It welcomes me, too soft for the mess in my head. Breakfast with two killers. The thought punches me square in the chest. What the hell am I doing?

They laughed, poured coffee. Chris fried vegetables. Cash made dumb jokes about squirrels while I just sat there taking it all in. I ate omelets with them and gave in to the illusion of normality when this whole setup is anything but normal.

The SAT book glares at me from across the room. Its bright letters seem ridiculous now, like a party banner left up after a funeral. I turn away. I don’t want to study anymore. I don’t want to chase a tomorrow that might mock me in the end. College tours, dorms, and all those neat little dreams. All of it fake. Another story I was supposed to believe. I dig my fingers into my thighs, reminding myself I haven’t disappeared yet.

Stix and Cash. They don’t only break bones, they kill.

The weight of every life they’ve snuffed out presses on me so hard I can barely breathe. I bet they don’t even count their victims, whose begging and pleas materialize in my head.

I don’t know which scares me more. That they’re monsters, or that they’re not. Maybe they’re good men doing bad things because someone pays them to. That makes them cogs in the same machine that killed my mother. If they were able to get someone out of an interrogation room unnoticed, it’s not that far-fetched that they could stage an accident or get files sealed. The existence of people like them is the reason she’s dead. Maybe she knew too much, maybe she pushed too far, or said the wrong thing. How long before I end up like her? God, I wish I had that diary.

My brain insists on playing out the scenario. Richard hiring Chris or Cash, or both, to get rid of me for good. It’s just a decision made somewhere out of my reach. An unpleasant but necessary end handled with grim efficiency, without drama. I don’t know how they end lives. My mind fills in the blanks anyway. A blade I wouldn’t see coming. Poison slipped into my drink. A single sharp sound, then—nothing.

However it’s done, it’s final, clean enough that the world won’t overthink it.

I press the heel of my hand into my eye until white sparks explode behind my lids. As far as I can tell, Richard didn’t choose that kind of ending, at least not yet. He chose a different path. Distance mixed with layers of lies, keeping him untouched while I absorb the damage in this game of kidnapping and hiding. Why doesn’t he just order the hit? He did it with my mother. She had his name, and she was disposable anyway. Do I even want to know which one of them would pull the trigger first if the price was right? Because the truth is, even if they care, even if they mean well, caring doesn’t stop people from doing terrible things. I’m not worth the exception.

I curl onto the bed sideways, knees to my chest, trying not to shake. Until now, I’d thought my father wanted to punish me, put me in my place, and teach me a lesson. But what if it’s more? What if it always was?

I’m confused and tired. So, so tired. I don’t know if I’ll ever get out of this place alive.

CHEERS

Cash

It’s nearly dark when I pull into the parking lot of the Smoke’Inn. Red neon buzzes above a yellow surfboard bolted to the entrance. The bulbs either gave up or flicker with the struggle of a life refusing to die.

The name says it all, the stench too. Every soul in this ramshackle place floats a few inches off the ground, and I’ll be drifting there myself if I stay too long.

The crowd isn’t big, and I find him almost immediately. He’s the one guy who refuses any sort of electronic device that leaves a trail, with the exception of the internet. Because, of course, he’s the only one who knows how to use it “correctly.”

Benny’s been holding down this corner booth since the days when saying his name still came with respect. Back in the day, he was a mid-level hitman. The kind you called for straightforward jobs that didn’t require a ghost and hits that didn’t make the news. He did clean work at a reasonable price. Then he started getting weird.

Now he lives half off the grid and the other half online, talking about how toothpaste scrambles your thoughts and how the Pentagon is staffed with clones. He’s convinced birds aren’t real. Well, except for owls. He respects owls. No one really takes him seriously anymore, but I’ve learned crazy doesn’t mean useless. You just have to separate the static from the signal.

“Would you believe it? Royalty’s gracing us with their presence,” he says as I slide into the booth, setting down a beer for him and one for me.

“Paying sixteen bucks for something called a mushroom latte wasn’t on my agenda,” I shoot back.

He cackles, slapping the table, greasy strands of hair falling into his face. “City people. No taste. No soul.”

We knock back shots, trade barbs, let the beer mellow the mood. I liked that part of training. Interrogation. Getting people to talk without laying a hand on them. Same thing out here. Make them feel important, and they’ll tell you what you need. I listen while he spins wild stories. Some may be real, some definitely not.

“You know they replaced three state governors with AI robots last year?” he mutters.

“Sure,” I say. “I always thought the Idaho guy looked too symmetrical.”