Page 7 of Trust

My thoughts stay stuck on my cell and on the dark soil I scraped from its ridges last night. There was only one place with that kind of dirt yesterday: the cemetery.

This morning, I was early for once, ready to blow. I wrenched open the SUV, sank into the seat, and fired away immediately. “It was you at the cemetery, wasn’t it?” My voice shook with fury. “You followed me. You took my phone. Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you warn me?” My jaw was locked so hard it ached.

Gabe’s icy glare sliced through the rearview mirror. “I’m not your friend, Miss Sara. Stop confusing me with one.” The Miss landed with a sting. Then, for the first time, the partition slid shut between us.

I sat stunned, nails digging into denim. Anger bled into betrayal. He’d always been rigid, but never this cruel. I thought he cared, even if only a little. After all, we’ve spent more than an hour together every day for the past five years. That’s more time than I spend with my father when I can’t avoid him.

Now, in class, Thompson drones on while I stare at the small screen in my lap. Richard confiscated my phone at the end of last year, right after he found out I’d tanked too many classes and got sentenced to summer school. He said I needed to focus. When he finally returned it, every social media account was set to private, every post he didn’t approve of wiped clean. He set the rules and conditions. Either I follow them or it’s gone again.

So why is it in my hand after losing it yesterday? That wasn’t a misstep, it was a fall off a cliff.

Suspicion crawls in. How could Gabe possibly know where I was, right down to the minute? I should’ve seen him, or the car, somewhere along the way to the cemetery. Richard wanted me to have my phone back. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have left it on the table. He would’ve dangled it in front of me first, made a whole show of stuffing it into his pocket.

They didn’t get lucky. They tracked me. They tracked this.

Next time I skip, the phone stays in my locker. Let them track an empty hallway while I disappear. I survived the entire summer without seeing what everyone ate on vacation, and I definitely didn’t miss the comments and calls from wannabe investigative journalists either.

I flinch as Thompson’s ruler cracks against his desk. Apparently, I’m not the only one who zoned out, but his attention is on me when he starts again.

“Statistically, children from stable family units show greater academic achievement...”

The words slither under my skin. The burn starts low, crawling up until it consumes me. I grip the edge of the desk until my knuckles turn white. He doesn’t call me out. There’s no need. He pauses mid-sentence, lets his gaze sweep the room, and then hooks it on me long enough for the rest of the class to follow. When he continues, he adds a small, practiced nod in my direction.

“...and emotional regulation. Structure builds character.”

That’s the stamp. He might as well have branded unhinged across my forehead.

A snicker snaps from the back. “Guess that explains Whitmore.” Laughter ripples through the room.

I shove to my feet, the desk clattering to the floor. Thompson barks for me to sit down, but I tune him out. One girl smirks like she’s been handed fresh ammunition for gossip. A guy near the back lifts his phone. Someone whispers, “There she goes again.”

Every reaction fuels my anger even more. “You think you know something about me? About my life?” My voice ricochets off the walls.

Thompson clears his throat and jabs a finger. “Miss Whitmore. Out. Now.”

“Gladly.” I snatch up my stuff and storm toward the exit. At the threshold, I cast one last look at the class, forcing a smile that threatens to crack. “Hope you enjoyed the show.” My voice breaks on the last syllable, and I shut the door hard before any of these idiots catch the emotions, I’ve worked so hard to hide.

The slam echoes, louder than the laughter, but not as loud as the fury roaring through me.

The locker shudders as I toss my phone inside. Out in the parking lot, I find an unlocked bike. Ugly thing. Doesn’t matter.

I race through traffic like a maniac, red lights blurring past, horns blaring. Someone yells as brakes screech. I hardly register any of it. For a split second, a face twists in rage behind a windshield, and then it’s gone. I don’t slow down.

Wind stings my eyes, sending tears sideways across my cheeks, leaving cold trails behind.

I could keep riding, just keep going. But where? Downtown? The park? Then what? I can’t stay anywhere. Even if I hate that house, right now it’s the only door I have a key to.

Once I make it to the driveway, exhaustion nearly drops me. With my last ounce of strength, I hurl the bike into the bushes and rush to my room.

I float above it all, heart pounding but distant, like it belongs to someone else. My limbs move on their own. My arm throws a lamp, but the crash of the shattered mirror hits my ears a beat late. Feet I hardly recognize strike the closet with quick, powerful kicks until it bursts open, shelves collapsing under the impact. Wood piles up with my clothes and a notebook.

A notebook?

My fingers close on the cover, ready to tear it to shreds in the same chaotic frenzy. But then a letter falls from it. I recognize the handwriting on the envelope.

It’s not just any handwriting. It’s Mom’s.

Bug, it says.