Page 108 of Trust

It’s a forensic photograph showing a dead woman from the shoulders up. Her skin lies smooth and unbroken. No marks where there should be. Nothing to explain what she went through.

I pull the whole photo free and go rigid.

It’s Mom.

Her face serene, eyes closed, hair fanned out in perfect curls. She looks asleep.

Only one mark mars her: a small, precise wound in the middle of her forehead.

You don’t need medical school to know what this stems from.

A bullet.

Time stops.

She wasn’t just murdered. She was executed, and the proof is in my hand.

I don’t know what hurts more; seeing her dead or realizing I was right all along.

I’m not crazy.

I didn’t imagine it.

With numb hands, I turn more pages filled with witness statements and interrogations.

According to the report, my father was home with me that night. I can’t recall any of it. I only remember the next day, when I was told my mother wouldn’t be coming home. After that, everything is fog.

The file notes say I was too shocked to speak. They didn’t question me again. Why would they? I was twelve.

I reach the end of the folder, and the air vanishes from the room.

Another printout lies face down.

I flip it over.

My eyes go wide. My hand flies to my mouth.

It’s a screenshot from a street camera: the moment a man raises a gun toward Mom’s car. His face is blurred, but unmistakable to me.

Gabe.

The man who’s been my driver for more than five years.

Gabe killed my mother.

LOSS

Chris

Iguess I’m not the only one she keeps on his toes,” Whitmore snorts as I watch the cabin door fall closed. She still lets emotion override training.

To my surprise, he repeats the question about her well-being.

“She’s safe,” I answer. “Will she be safe when she’s back with you?”

“Of course,” he says, as if offended by the suggestion it could be otherwise. “I’m her father.”

“How about Gabe?” I let the name hang between us. “Will she be safe with Gabe, or will she end up the same way your wife did?” My words are careful.