Page 11 of Trust

Gabe.

He’s looming in the doorway, unmoving, his stare colder than ever. My food is about to come back up. How did he find me? He couldn’t have. Unless my phone isn’t the only thing they’re tracking.

I whip my gaze to Grandma behind him. Her lips shape a silent I’m sorry before flattening into a hard line.

The second betrayal hits me harder than the first this morning, reminding me once again how painfully naïve trust can be. Whereas Gabe is just an employee, my grandparents are family, and they ratted me out. Now that hurts.

“Why?” My voice cracks.

No answer.

The people I needed most, the only ones I thought still loved me, don’t want me here.

They were supposed to be my way out. My last chance. And now there is none.

You’re my heart, Mom used to say. But she’s not here, and now no one’s heart has room for me anymore.

“Where’s your stuff?” Gabe’s tone is all frost.

I go upstairs without answering him. He follows, watches every move I make and takes my bag when it’s full.

In defeat, I leave without the diary and without saying goodbye.

On my way out, I catch sight of the bowl of ice cream sitting on the table, a tiny symbol of what could have been. The spoon has tipped sideways, and the scoops sag into a puddle. Whatever sweetness was waiting for me is gone now, dripping away.

The partition is already up when I climb into the car. The radio is turned off, the windows shut all the way. With the back separated, it’s a casket. Now more than ever before. Fitting that I’m already dead inside.

They were my only hope of getting free of him. Where else can I go with no money and no one to catch me if I fall? His influence reaches everywhere. He would find a way to force me into any place he wants. Going home is the only option I have for now.

One blink and I’m at the house. The last bit of daylight is gone from the sky. I trudge through the entrance with Gabe on my heels, carrying my bag.

Richard’s waiting before I can disappear into what’s left of my room. He doesn’t raise his voice. His calm cuts sharper than anger.

“You’re suspended until Monday. Not that it matters. You won’t be setting foot in that school again. You get what you want. You’re done with my rallies. Stay here. Break your things. Destroy your room. I don’t care. You’re not leaving this house until you’re off to boarding school next week. Eighteen or not.”

I stare at him, searching for a crack, for some sign he won’t follow through with what he said, but there’s nothing. He’s all cold iron.

So I take the stairs, step into the wreckage of my room, and sprawl on my bed without changing.

It’s nearly midnight. My eyes close.

Happy birthday to me.

TOO EASY

Chris

I’m running out of time.

Three nights, and the tension’s been building around that house. Sara’s pacing has changed. Her lights stay on longer. Something is brewing, and tonight the pot boils over.

Her bedroom darkens, and except for distant traffic noise from the city and the occasional dog bark, the neighborhood has gone quiet. The driver has left the estate. Nothing suggests Whitmore’s awake.

I wait. Patience is the only weapon that doesn’t dull.

There—movement.

Whitmore’s little trainwreck of a daughter sneaks out and awkwardly climbs over the fence. Her hair’s tied up, and a backpack hangs over one shoulder. With a black hoodie and dark jeans, she’s dressed for concealment. Her clumsy landing, and her shoes scraping on the pavement are anything but stealthy, though.