Page 55 of Trust

“Name’s Whitmore.”

Her brows rise. “As in Wisconsin?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Her hands pause on the keys for a second, a frown forming on her face. Then she keeps typing. A police emblem fills the screen.

“The data is irregular. It’s not just sealed, it’s been overwritten, as if the original never existed. I’m trying to restore it.”

She hums, tilting her head. Less than a minute later, the screen shows archived reports. She clicks through them one by one. I scan for anything out of place, anything I don’t recognize. The details line up with what I already know. No mention of a Board, not even a hint. What if it really was just an accident?

A video file loads next.

The street cams show an empty intersection, timestamped near midnight. A blue Audi stops at a red light, Mariana Whitmore's car. When it turns green, she crosses. Not a moment later, a black SUV barrels into her broadside. The Audi spins and flips. Metal screams until it rocks to a halt, then the audio goes eerily still.

A door opens.

The driver of the SUV steps out, walks to the wreckage, and pulls a gun. One confident shot. No hesitation. It’s cold-blooded and efficient work. Not even five seconds pass before another SUV arrives. The shooter climbs in. They vanish. So much for an accident. Sara was right.

“Rewind. Zoom in,” I say.

Ananya freezes the frame and magnifies the shooter’s face. The quality is garbage, but good enough to suggest a shape, good enough to recognize him.

“You know him?” she asks.

“Not yet. Print it all. Reports, footage, screenshots. No digital trail.”

I sound like Benny. Shit.

She hits print and squeezes past me, not because she has to, but because she wants to. She stops close, scraping a nail along my jaw, her mouth near mine. Too close. “Trip down memory lane while we wait?” she purrs.

I grab her chin, angle her face away, and lean toward her ear. “Some things deserve to stay memories.”

Her eyes flash with hurt, longing, rejection. Then she snaps the mask back on. “You’re no fun.”

“Said no one, ever,” I snort.

The printer spits the pages out. She gathers them into a folder and presses it against my chest. I close my hand over hers. “Thanks,” I say, sincere this time.

Her voice softens.

“Careful, Cash. Whitmore isn’t just city politics anymore. You pull on that thread, it’ll pull back.”

“Nice to know you still care.”

“Say hi to Chris,” she calls after me when I’m nearly out of sight.

I glance back and wink.

“Will do.”

SPARK

Sara

Time slips into a strange rhythm with slow breakfasts, breathless training sessions, and fires at night. I have no idea what day it is or how many weeks I’ve been here. Sometimes I forget the rest of the world exists. Except when I’m doing planks, then time is very real and very cruel.

Halfway through, my arms are shaking and my face is probably redder than a ripe tomato. Chris says nothing at first, kneels beside me, and adjusts my shoulder. “You're compensating with your traps. That's why it burns here.”