Page 8 of Trust

The world stops spinning. The noise in my head shuts off in an instant, as if someone pulled the plug. Only then do the details of the room filter back in: shattered glass catching the light, the closet door hanging broken, jeans and shirts spilling out around the wreckage.

Bug. The name pulls the turmoil out of me, the distance shrinking until I am back in my own skin again. It’s been so long since I’ve heard her call me that. I’ve missed it so much.

With shaking hands, I open the envelope as carefully as I can and absorb every word.

My dearest Bug,

If you’re reading this, something has gone wrong and I hate that more than words can say. But I need you to know: I love you, more than anything in this world. That never changes, no matter what the future brings.

I have a terrible feeling about some of the deals your father is mixed up in, and I couldn’t keep ignoring it any longer.

This diary contains pieces of the truth. Things I can tell no one because I no longer know who to trust—not my friends, not the police and least of all your father.

Be careful and trust your instincts. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you always.

Mom

I read it once, then again. Slower this time, afraid the lines might fade if I don’t hold on to them. My throat is tight by the time I finish. The letter trembles in my grip, and before I can stop myself, I clutch it to my chest and breathe in. The faint smell of lavender and cinnamon still clings to it, but that could also be my imagination. The little notes she often put in my lunchbox smelled the same way. “You’re my heart,” they said.

It drags the memory to the surface so fast it aches. The last time I heard those words, she hugged me and held me longer than usual, long enough for me to notice she didn’t want to let go. Later, after I went to bed, she came in again. Just to say good night. Just to run her hand over my head. That evening was the last time anything was normal. The last time I was truly loved. Afterward, everything changed.

I sink down to the floor, as if making myself smaller could dull the pain. It can’t.

The notebook lies next to me. It’s black and simple. I’m afraid of what I will find inside, but still, I reach for it and flip through the pages. Nearly every single one is filled with the loops of her neat handwriting. Dates line the margins. Names penned in ink, some I know, most I don’t. License plate numbers and addresses of places I’ve never been to are marked in yellow highlighter. Newspaper articles are glued between the entries. They all cover the same topics. Teen Missing, Two Young Sisters Found Dead, Where Is This 16-Year-Old Girl? Photos of young women I don’t recognize stare back at me. They’re all about my age. This is horrible. Are they all dead? Every detail is part of a web I can’t untangle.

She left me this.

The more I flip through, the harder it is to breathe. She was scared but alert. None of this is random. She was chasing something.

Whatever she started, it’s mine now. He’s part of it, and I need to know exactly what he did.

I find the last entry. It’s dated the day of her accident.

I can’t do this anymore. I’m leaving him. Tomorrow, I’m taking my daughter, and I’m going back home.

Two blank lines interrupt the note, like a pause. Then, the next sentences come fast, the handwriting rushed as if she had been in a hurry.

Sara’s in bed. I’ll check on her when I put the book back. Megan called. She’s not feeling well, pregnant and all. With Mike at a conference, I’ll stop by and keep her company for a while, so she doesn’t feel alone. Richard’s home, still buried in work. I’m not even sure he registered where I’m going.

Megan. Her best friend. When she visited, they giggled nearly as much as Holly and me.

I gape at the page, her words vibrating between what was about to happen and what never did. Pressing my hand flat against the page, I search for a trace of her warmth still trapped in the paper. My other hand clamps over my mouth, where a sound is caught between a sob and a gasp. I swallow it down.

It wasn’t my imagination. She saw what he was. She wanted out. And then she died.

The strap of my duffel peeks out from under the pile of clothes as I take in the wreck of my room. That’s it: my exit.

I tug it free and cram in any clothes I can grab, making sure to include Mom’s old hoodie, still carrying her memory, and her diary. I clamp down hard, teeth clenched, until the zipper bites shut.

Shit, now it’s too big to haul on a bike. This day has not let up once.

Think, Sara, think. I need a new plan before this adds another failure to my list. I run through my options fast, then race down to the landline.

With what little cash I have stuffed in my pocket, I call a cab to pick me up from down the block.

The taxi drops me at the station. I know the schedule by heart. In my head, I’ve run through this escape a dozen times. Now it’s real. I catch myself hoping. After a day of turmoil, steadiness returns. I’m almost in control again.

The sense of being watched still lingers. Is Gabe after me again? He’s nowhere in the crowd. I make straight for the platform, no ticket in hand. Is that what’s clawing at me, the risk of a fare inspector catching me?