Page 35 of Trust

“I raided one of those little free libraries on the way,” he replies. “Figured you’d need something to pass the time.”

“How thoughtful.” I pull one off the shelf at random. The cover reads Fishing for Dummies. I raise a brow. “Maybe I’ll just do that if I get bored.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs, not falling for it. He inhales slowly, the kind of breath that buys him time. His eyes narrow a fraction as he weighs his words.

“I’ll still have to lock this door at night. I know we have a deal. Give me some time to trust it?”

I nod and force my expression to stay blank, although what he says stings. I understand, though, and I’d agree to almost anything if it means I can sleep in here tonight. I won’t break my word, but he doesn’t know that, and I can’t be sure he’ll keep his. This might be the only way it works. A lock for me and one for him. It’s neither freedom nor trust. But it’s the closest we can get for now.

“So, you want me to stay in here then?” I ask carefully, bracing for an answer I dread. I’ll go crazy if he locks me in.

“No,” he says immediately. “It’s only locked while I sleep. Otherwise, you’re free to roam the house. As long as I know where you are, you can also go outside, okay?”

This isn’t freedom, but it’s not a cage either, so I agree. Not wholeheartedly, but I do. It’s a start.

He steps out, leaving the door open behind him. I scan the room. No red light blinks in the corner. He might still be watching. It’s just not obvious.

An hour later, relief still doesn’t come. I’m drained, ready for sleep, but I need to test him first. Find out how real he is.

After waiting a few minutes, I slip out past his room, glimpse into the bathroom, and go down the stairs, as stealthy as I can. He’s on the couch, arm comfortably draped along the backrest. His gaze finds me instantly.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

I point toward the kitchen. “Yeah. I wanted some water for the night.” Not even I believe a word I say.

“Go ahead. You’ll find drinks in the fridge.”

The kitchen door falls closed behind me. I grab a bottle and start back, but my eyes linger on the drawer handles, the glint of steel within reach beneath them. A precaution. I take one of the knives upstairs. Deal or not, I need more time before I can rely on it.

The glow of the TV catches my eye as I reenter the living space. Football is on. I stop at the bottom of the stairs, trying to make out who’s playing. I need one second too long, and his voice cuts in. “Wanna watch?”

I want to say no, but I also want to see the game. Upstairs there’s nothing waiting for me but books and boredom, and I’m too wired to sleep. So I go to the armchair farthest from him and sink into it. Concealing the knife under my sweats, I try not to cut up my leg more than it already is. I twitch once, which earns me a suspicious look I ignore.

It’s a fast-paced game with lots of breakaway runs and long passes. Although I don’t shout at the screen like some fans do, I do find it entertaining, even in the very awkward situation we find ourselves in right now.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him twitch at an interception. When the Packers score their fifth touchdown to lock in the win, his fists clench at his sides before relaxing again. His mouth pulls into a smile, a subtle spark of triumph. He turns to me, checking if I saw.

I can’t help but grin. “You’re a fan too, huh?”

“I don’t get to watch very often,” he admits. “So that was fun.”

“Yeah. It was...”

I stand too fast, cutting the moment short before this gets weirder than it already is. Somehow I make it to my room without losing the knife or the bottle.

The closed door doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would, not when I’m the one who shut it. When he locks it later, I might not even notice. Tucking the knife beneath the mattress is a small victory. I’ve managed to stay one step ahead again. No immediate consequences. My luck is finally changing.

I flip through newspapers and magazines, trying to tire my mind enough to sleep. They’re all from last week. One headline stands out. Underneath it, a familiar face stares back at me like he’s already won: Future Governor Richard Whitmore: Faith, Family, and a Second Chance at Public Life.

I almost don’t read it. I really, really should simply tear it up.

A quote stands out near the end. At first, I think I’ve misread. But there it is, in black and white. “Sara is a bright girl. But she has been lost for a while, ever since her mother passed. Like any teenager in pain, she started acting out with drinking, skipping school. Rehab was the right place for her. I’m hopeful. I’ve always loved her and her mother dearly. I’m doing this for them.”

I sit back on the mattress and stare at the words. Anger blurs my vision. A hard-edged kind of rage starts low in my chest and spreads like wildfire.

The paper crumples in my hand before I even realize I’m doing it.

Rehab?