Page 48 of Trust

“I’m not a kid,” I insist.

He runs a hand through his hair, drawing in a breath. “Not what I meant. You know that. But you weren’t supposed to be in my world.”

“Then why take this job?” I’m trying to keep my voice low.

His eyes meet mine. “Because I owed someone a favor. And walking away wasn’t an option.”

His words are certain. He believes what he’s saying, but I’m not sure I do. His posture is too rigid, his eyes fixed on his drink. I refuse to let this go.

“Who?”

He doesn’t answer.

“You owe me this much,” I press. “Tell me who. My father?”

He shakes his head. “Mendoza,” he says.

“Philip?” I ask, disbelief cutting through my voice. Richard and he go way back. College, if I remember correctly. He became the kind of creepy uncle you make sure you’re fully dressed around. Every time he came over, his eyes traced down my body like he was assessing something he might buy. Fucking pervert. His involvement makes sense, though. If I fucked up the election and Richard lost, he’d go down with him. No wonder he wanted me out of the picture.

“How do you know him?”

Chris shifts, discomfort in his posture. “One of my guys, Bones, offered help. If it weren’t for me, he’d be dead. His father, Ed, is chief in your hometown. When I met him, he was so grateful that I’d saved his only child’s life that he shook my hand and said I’d have police support if I ever needed it. He put me in touch with Mendoza. That was before he knew what line of work I’d end up in. He was less enthusiastic after, but he still owed me.”

I stare at him open-mouthed, realization hitting. This is crazy.

“That’s how you got me out of the police station.”

He nods.

I focus on the glass in my hand, processing what he told me. Eddie is the chief. Before Richard appointed him, he investigated Mom’s death, or he didn’t, and just looked the other way. The timing of his promotion right after the funeral wasn’t a coincidence. It was his prize for getting the files sealed, for lying to the press, for burying her.

“What did Philip do for you?”

He takes a deep breath.

“Erased my record, got me off the news, off the wanted list. He gave me my life back.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks while the fire pops and crackles.

Too much. Everything he’s said spins in my head. I sit with it, waiting for something to click.

“I want a favor!”

The words are out before I can second-guess them.

He frowns. “What kind of favor?”

“I hate this. I hate being a victim. I don’t want to sit here and wait for my father to decide what happens to me. I want to be able to fight back.”

His eyes sharpen. “Fight back against who? Me?”

“People like you,” I say. “The ones who take.”

He studies me, his head tilted slightly as if he’s trying to figure out what I’m talking about.

I lean forward. “Teach me.”

His voice is low, careful. “Teach you what?”