Page 5 of Trust

He tips the brim of his cap, and I half expect him to call me “ma’am,” but he just walks off.

Have I stepped into some alternate universe where I give off pom-pom-and-ribbon vibes? Amused at the thought, I shake my head at myself. Nope. Never happening.

◆◆◆

Back in the car with Gabe, I bask in the small victory of skipping class again, even as a knot from that shadow twists in my stomach.

I smirk at the image of myself hopping around in a miniskirt on the sidelines.

Me? A cheerleader? Yeah, right.

“Good day?” Gabe asks, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.

“Fine,” I mutter, wiping my face clean of emotion before he can read more.

Through the window, the field slips out of sight. Still, I can’t shake the feeling someone’s eyes stayed on me long after I left Mom’s grave.

“Can we stop at the bookstore for a while?” I ask.

“You know we can’t.” Gabe doesn’t add an explanation. He doesn’t need to.

Raising my arms in frustration, I try anyway. “Come on, it’s the bookstore. What’s the problem? If someone sees me there, I appear smart. Good publicity, remember?”

“Get his permission, and I’ll take you.”

Ugh. My knee bounces, making the car quiver as I figure out what to say to him, how to spin it so Richard thinks it’s his idea. My fingers brush an empty pocket when I reach for my phone. Cold panic shoots through me.

It’s gone.

Shit! Shit, shit, shit.

I tear through my stuff, my jacket, every pocket. It’s not there.

“Missing something?” Gabe asks, a little too watchful for my liking.

“None of your business,” I snap, heat rising in my throat.

I try hard to retrace the day. I checked the time at the grave, then shoved my phone in my pocket and ran. Haven’t touched it since. Did I lose it on the way to the bus? On the bus? On the bleachers? Did someone take it? The shadow?

Fuck.

All I know is hell will break loose if Richard finds out. That’s what I get for trying to reduce screen time.

He’s not at home.

Figures.

Thankfully, we have a landline and an actual phone book, relics from the Stone Age. I flip through and start dialing: Lost and Found, Parks and Rec, Public Works, the school office. Basically anyone who might’ve tripped over my phone.

No success. Half the people don’t pick up, the other half sound seconds away from laughing in my face. Forget about it, sweetheart. We get reports like this every day. Click.

Great.

I try to come up with an excuse for when he gets home. Or I won’t tell him at all, stay in my room and ignore him like he ignores my calls. He won’t pick up on it immediately, and I dodge another fight.

However, the cordless has to go back on its charger if I don’t want to raise suspicion. I go downstairs and stop cold.

Voices.