Page 34 of Trust

REHAB

Sara

Sunlight kisses my skin. I tuck my knees up under me and hug them loosely. The shouting has faded. Alarms stay silent. No one asks for more than I’m willing to give. Birdsong carries on the wind, rustling the trees. The distant shimmer of the lake still holds onto morning mist. A sense of peace washes over me, sinking deep into my bones, stripping away noise and pressure.

A clean slate, that’s what this is.

Footsteps creak across the wooden planks. Chris appears, asks if I want to stay out here longer, and offers me a folded blanket and some orange juice.

I blink, take it from him with both hands. “Thanks,” I say with a skeptical smile.

He nods once and leaves again.

Wrapping it around my shoulders, I make myself comfortable outside as the hours slip by, watching light and shadow drift across the clearing. Part of me keeps waiting for him to order me into the shed for the night. He didn’t bring anything back into the house, so I figure he might. If I get through the rest of the day without giving him a reason to doubt me, he might not insist.

The idea of returning to that cage makes every instinct scream at me to run again. But I don’t.

We have a deal, and I’m not breaking it.

When the sun finally dips behind the treetops, painting the sky in reds and oranges, I’m still there. It’s magical in a strange, lonely way. Like a place outside of time, or so far away it doesn’t matter anymore. Is this what meditation does to you?

It gets chilly, but I stay in my spot, trying to enjoy every minute out in the open until dusk settles and Chris calls me in for dinner.

I meet him in the kitchen, where garlic sizzles in the pan, scenting the room. I sit across from him at the table, still watchful. He doesn’t push for conversation, simply makes sure I have enough to eat and leaves me to my thoughts.

Judging by how each bite dances on my tongue and how the plate looks like a masterpiece, he’s a great cook. I wouldn’t have guessed that at first, and I savor every mouthful.

When we’re done, I help with the cleanup without him having to ask. At home, I never lifted a finger. Staff handled everything, when there was dinner at all. Here, there’s nothing else to do, and doing dishes is better than the shed. Anything is better than that.

Since I don’t know where the dishes go, I wash while he puts them away. On the last plate, he pauses, drying it slower than the rest. His eyes flick toward me. “Let me show you something.”

I wrap my arms around myself, wary. “What?”

He lets the water drain away. “Come on,” he says with a wave toward himself.

I follow him upstairs with slow steps, my heart picking up even though I try to keep it cool. He leads me to the room. My room.

I step inside and freeze. It’s different.

On the floor, blankets and a pile of plush pillows cover a thick mattress. A small nightstand sits nearby. The shelves are no longer empty. They’re filled with books, a couple of folded newspapers, and my clothes. A low lamp spills warm yellow light across the room.

I turn back to him, my brow furrowed. “Why?”

He shifts, like the question unsettles him. For a beat, he hesitates, then his gaze settles on mine. “Because I’m not a monster. I shouldn’t have taken this job, but I did, and I want to make it right.”

My throat constricts. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I step farther into the room, trying to make sense of it all. It’s almost cozy.

“You went through my things,” I blurt, dragging a finger across the neat pile of my clothes, unsure whether to feel violated by it. My underwear is there.

“Well... I had to check for weapons,” he says, almost apologetic, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“I take it you didn’t find any?”

A lopsided grin appears on his face. He shakes his head.

My attention shifts to the stack of books. They don’t match: The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, All the King’s Men, The Joy of Cooking. Some spines are cracked and frayed. Others seem untouched.

“Is this your collection?” I ask.