Page 16 of Trust

She hurls the bottle. I seize it mid-air, shake my head disapprovingly and set it down beside me.

She’s ready to leap, fists swinging. I almost wish she would. It might burn some of that fire out.

But she just glares, breathing hard.

Her back presses against the wall when I rise. I hold her stare long enough to see her defiance hasn’t cracked. She wants me to believe she’s fearless, but her shoulders are trembling under that fake bravado.

I want her afraid.

Fear keeps people in line.

THE OFFER

Chris – Four weeks earlier

The office reeks of dust and forgotten paperwork, a powdery scent laced with damp decay. Silence hangs heavy, broken only by the occasional groan of the beams. Paint peels from the walls in brittle curls, and the floor crunches underfoot with glass, grit, perhaps mouse droppings.

I already said no, but in a world where favors weigh more than cash, debts don’t disappear. You pay. If I take this job, Mendoza’s off my back and we’re even. Whitmore’s campaign partner arranged the whole thing, probably paying off a debt of his own.

Richard Whitmore stands, hands folded neatly behind his back, presence filling the room without a wasted movement. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t sweat or blink unless it serves a purpose, a machine in a tailored suit.

His appearance screams politician. Slick hair, expensive watch, the trained expression of a man who’s sold too many versions of the truth. It’s not only what’s on the surface. It's the vibe. Detached, ruthless, and utterly sure he’s the smartest man in every room.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Stix.” He offers me his outstretched hand, speaking like every word is pre-approved. There’s not an ounce of warmth in it. “I assume you're wondering why I requested you specifically.”

“It’s just Stix,” I correct him, “and yes, I have a guess.” His grip is firm without being threatening. We don’t sit, as the abandoned chairs don’t appear to hold a person’s weight anymore.

He steps behind the old desk, opens a leather folder, and slides a photograph across like it’s classified intel. I pick it up.

“She’s out of control,” he says. “My daughter’s behavior is jeopardizing everything I’ve worked for: the campaign, my image, my career.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And you think I can help with that?”

The photo’s been clipped from one of his flyers. It doesn’t sit right. His daughter stands beside him, smiling at the crowd. Braid neat, posture practiced, dress simple but expensive. Jackie Kennedy style. Her shoulders are narrow, her eyes bright and tinged with hope. The whole image is too polished, almost artificial.

“I’m on the verge of becoming governor. She’s nearly eighteen and should understand the importance of discretion. But rather than making smart choices, she’s deliberately courting attention and acting untouchable.”

“I bet she is,” I mutter, drumming my fingers against the table in a quick rhythm.

He continues, oblivious to my rising annoyance. “There’s talk already. If the press gets wind of it—” He cuts himself off and clears his throat. “I need her out of the way.”

My fingers still. I scrunch my forehead, giving him a dark look.

“Not permanently,” he adds, unbothered, treating it as a simple logistical decision, “just out of sight until November.”

That’s why he doesn’t give me a personal photo. If I got caught and it was found on me, the photo could easily be traced back to him. I let my gaze settle on the girl once more. He paints a picture of disorder, but this looks like someone who followed the rules—at least on one occasion.

Who cares. Not my lane.

I slide it back. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t go after women, let alone minors. I solve problems, but not the parenting kind. I don’t do boot camps, and I sure as hell don’t do babysitting.”

“This is only temporary,” he insists, ignoring my objection. “Keep her somewhere she can’t do damage to me, or to herself, without any phones or internet access. Somewhere secluded.”

“You’re confusing me with a contract camp counselor.” He must be joking. He’d really hand over his daughter to a man like me just to get her off the grid. Mendoza called it a well-paid, easy job. Said it barely scratched what I owe him. My profession usually doesn’t leave people breathing. I expected an easy kill, not... this.

“I was told you’re one of the best, and you’re more persuasive than boarding school,” he continues, and I don’t like the gleam in his eye. “You know how to keep people in line.”

I shake my head. “Mr. Whitmore—”