Page 114 of Trust

“Not yet? He died on stage.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

“Whitmore was shot.”

For a beat, the room tilts. I look between the Whites, my mind spinning.

“You there?” Stix snaps, impatient.

“I am,” I say, voice low. “Mendoza works for the Board. If Whitmore’s dead, Mendoza becomes governor.”

Silence hums on the line. We reach the same conclusion. Sara and Whitmore were always meant to die. Whitmore hired Stix to protect her, probably thinking that once he became governor, she could come back and life would go on. He didn’t expect his own execution, or his ally to be part of it. The Board wanted Mendoza in office and used Whitmore to get him there. Sara was a liability. The rehab story played better with voters than her death ever could have. A funeral would’ve forced him to drop out, just like last time.

“Code Red,” we blurt simultaneously, then hang up.

I shove the phone back into my pocket. The Whites sit frozen, wide-eyed, waiting for a verdict. They will not get one. I already have what I came for. No face, no name. They’ll live. I promised. Promises matter, even from men such as me.

I cut the professor’s ties and step into the night.

CODE RED

Sara

What the hell is ‘Code Red’? The words hit like a punch.

Chris paces, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. The room closes in around us.

“Did he do it?” I ask, swallowing hard.

He looks at me, eyes dark, and shakes his head. The anger in his face makes me believe he’s furious with me. How dare he?

“Where’s your duffel?” he rasps.

“Upstairs. I already packed it.” When I accidentally knocked over the bedside lamp, a bead-sized black eye stared at me from the nightstand—the camera I always knew was in there somewhere. Doesn’t matter now.

I spent the afternoon unraveling. Again. I’ve lost so much already, I should be used to it. But I’m not. Despite everything, no one deserves to die like that. Not even him. If Chris told the truth about this Board, maybe my dad just wanted to protect me. But was it the truth? I don’t know what to believe anymore. I pick through the shards of my life, trying to arrange them into a shape that doesn’t slice me open.

I never heard anyone mention a Board—not when I was supposed to be listening.

Anger coils under my ribs when I think of Gabe and all the shit I thought I had put him through. Except I didn’t. I never got him into trouble. He wasn’t protecting me, he was keeping a lid on me. That’s why things felt off when I walked in on them the week before Chris took me. I almost laugh at myself for worrying Gabe had been fired. He probably threatened to kill me if my father didn’t get me in line. Dad tried. I made it worse. Oh my God, this is my fault. I should have noticed. I was too busy hating my father, too busy lost in my own darkness. I didn’t really see him either, and now I never will again.

Chris takes the stairs two at a time. I follow, heart racing, not knowing what is happening. He tears open my duffel, flinging clothes across the bed.

“Hey!” I yell as he rifles through my things.

He throws my mother’s hoodie at me. “Hold on to this.”

My hand shoots out, snatching it from the air before I can even process the movement. Then I just stand there, wide eyed like a deer in high beams.

What is he looking for? He plunges into the empty bag, fingers scraping the lining. A zipper. A tear. He is shredding it apart.

A metallic clink fractures the hush. My gut already knows it’s bad, even before I can make out what’s on the floor.

He bends down and lifts a shiny, round metal piece between his fingers. It is no bigger than a coin, a delicate seam circling its edge.

“What is that?” I ask, the words thin.

“A tracker,” he says flatly, as if he’s already blaming himself. He runs a hand through his hair. “Dammit.”