Page 47 of Trust

TEACH ME

Sara

Istay on my bed long after Chris leaves, although I’m not tired. My mind is racing too fast to even consider closing my eyes. I want to believe him, I really do. There are a hundred reasons not to. I barely know him. What I do know is he’s done terrible things. He didn’t deny it, didn’t try to convince me it was somehow justified. What he said about not hurting me felt genuine. It’s hard not to trust what’s stirring within me.

I sit up and draw my knees to my chest. It’s warm in here, the heat almost stifling. Chris must’ve lit a fire downstairs.

Eventually, I peel back the blanket and stand. The thin cotton shorts and T-shirt I slept in cling to me, but I don’t care. Impressing anyone isn’t the point. Not being afraid anymore is.

The door opens with a soft creak. Amber light illuminates the stairwell, and the whole cabin smells like heat and woodsmoke.

He’s there, in the armchair next to the couch. The glass in his hand catches the firelight, its contents glowing a deep golden brown. Not a weak drink.

He sets the glass down and watches as I sit on the couch, putting as much distance between him and me as the cushions allow.

We both stare at the flames. The unexpected coziness is disturbingly out of place.

“You want tea or water?” he asks after a while.

I glance at his glass and nod toward it. “Can I try that?”

His brow lifts a fraction, but he reaches for the glass and hands it to me. “Careful with that.”

I take a sip and regret it instantly. The liquid hits my throat like lava and scorched dirt. My face twists before I can stop it. Chris tries to suppress a chuckle.

“Told you,” he says.

I glare and lift the glass to my lips once more. It burns again, but I don’t let it show this time. The liquid makes me bold, braver than I am.

“Can I ask you something? About your job, I mean.”

His eyes narrow slightly, measuring as he considers. “You sure you want to know?”

I’m not. But if I let these questions keep circling, I’ll never find any peace here. “How... how do you do it?”

His shoulders lower as he lets out a slow breath, gaze drifting somewhere past me. I don’t push.

Finally, he says, “I’m a sniper. Long range. In and out before anyone even knows I was there. Cash’s the one who gets close,” he adds. “Hands-on, knives, choke holds. Makes it personal.”

I shiver and take another sip of whiskey.

He sounds like he’s talking about fixing a leaky faucet or managing a stock portfolio. All business.

“When we work together,” he chooses his phrasing thoughtfully, “I clear the way. Cash ends it.”

It’s almost fascinating, like watching a nature documentary about a dangerous animal. But here, I’m part of the wildlife. Prey, trying to gauge the predator. His hands stay still, never fidgeting. No shame, no apology in his tone. He doesn’t confess a sin; he’s listing job skills.

“Why didn’t you stay in the Navy?” I want to understand.

His jaw clenches. “Orders would have taken us straight into an ambush. I didn’t follow them.” His gaze hardens. “My team made it out. My career didn’t.” He pauses. “Later they figured out the intel was bad. The target wasn’t even there. He was busy carrying out a hit on a U.S. base in Germany the same night. The administration needed someone to blame. I was convenient.”

“That’s why you became a killer? A kidnapper?” My sympathy only goes so far.

“It’s what I was trained for. Now I work for myself, not a corrupt government. I choose the targets. People no one else will touch. People whose deaths are justified. At least to me.”

That snaps my gaze to him. “Then why me?”

He doesn’t react right away. “You weren’t a target,” he says at last. “This job’s different. It’s a guard detail, whether you see it that way or not. I don’t take out kids, Sara. I don’t do that.”