Page 57 of Trust

Cash

I don’t bother hiding the sound of the truck. Stix knew I was coming five minutes ago. I take my time on the walk to the cabin, letting the early evening breeze cool my skin. It’s colder now. Wetter, too. The place fills my nose with the familiar smells of pine needles and smoke.

The front door’s not locked, not that I expected it to be. I push it open and stop.

Sara’s mid-workout on the floor, arms shaking, face flushed, doing planks. Stix is next to her, down on one knee. He supports her with the type of focus you’d expect in an operating room, not a workout session. “Oh wow,” I say, dragging out the words. “What’s goin’ on here?”

Stix doesn’t miss a beat. “Training,” he says with that professional edge, like he’s prepping her for a mission.

Her muscles give out, making her drop to the floor. “I’m taking that as a break,” she mutters.

“Good to see you alive,” Stix says, getting up.

His attention still on Sara, he claps his hands once. “We’re done for today.”

She pushes up with a groan and drags herself up the stairs without another word. Once the bathroom door clicks shut behind her, I follow Stix into the kitchen.

I lean against the counter, arms folded. “So. You want to tell me what’s happening here?”

He opens the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and tosses it to me. “She asked me to teach her self-defense.”

I catch it without breaking eye contact. “That what we’re calling it?”

He glares at me. “She’s serious about it. She wants to learn.”

“It’s more than working out, if you ask me,” I add, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip. “Crossed any lines yet?”

He huffs a dry sound that could be a laugh or a sigh. “No.”

“Why not?” I ask. “You’re telling me you’ve been here, living together, training together. She’s following your instructions and looks at you with that expression on her face, and you haven’t—?”

“She’ll be gone soon,” he cuts me off.

“You think?” I ask.

Stix narrows his eyes. He knows me well enough to get what I’m not saying.

I throw the folder on the kitchen table and sink into a chair, suddenly not in the mood for jokes. “You might wanna see this.”

He flips through the papers, piecing it together. His features remain impassive until he hits the screenshot from the clip.

“You know him.”

He runs a hand through his hair. Doesn’t say a word.

Fine, I keep going.

“I went through all of it. Names show up in one file, missing in the other. Some barely readable. Didn’t even type up the handwritten notes. They sealed that shit fast.”

I drop the list of names onto the photo. He takes it and studies it.

“Are they still alive?”

“I’ll try it your way this time: do some more digging first.”

He doesn’t comment. Just waits for more.

“Benny mentioned a Board, some kind of organization using insiders for their dirty work. Keeps Whitmore in line. Shapes elections.”