Page 36 of Trust

Rehab?

How noble.

How convenient.

The coarse paper crackles as I force it flat, pressing my hands together so hard that both my arms shake.

Hatred bubbles up hot and acidic in my stomach. It doesn’t explode. It simmers. He’s crafted this perfect story, and the broken daughter is the tragedy in the footnotes.

He left me and outsourced the damage. I never knew this much resentment could exist in one person, but here we are.

Let him charm the cameras.

Let him win votes.

But one thing’s for sure: He’ll never get me back.

BOOTCAMP

Chris

Sleep doesn’t come. Checking the feed every few minutes is paranoid, but I do it anyway. I’m sure she wants to use the knife she hid rather on me than on herself, and she can’t go anywhere. Everything’s fine. The rational voice inside my head knows that.

Nonetheless, relaxing isn’t an option.

I alternate my gaze between the screen and the bench until I finally give in. The weights are heavy enough to shut up my brain. The repetition helps. It always does. No one’s ever slept here before, not this close to me. I force the thought away. If I can drop into a dead sleep in a metal-framed bunk with forty other soldiers in some godforsaken barrack, I can handle one girl in my own house.

In the early morning, on three hours of sleep, I unlock her door without opening it. She can come out when she’s ready. A deal’s a deal.

Five minutes later, we almost collide in the hallway, me leaving the bathroom, her going in. After a muttered exchange of awkward sorries, we manage to pass without brushing shoulders.

On the porch, I’m packing my fishing case when she steps out. I glance up when she speaks. “Are you going somewhere?”

Hard to tell if she asks because she hopes I’ll leave her alone or because she’s afraid I will.

“Fishing,” I say, testing the waters. “Wanna come? Wouldn’t want you to get bored.” I can hardly suppress my amusement, remembering how she scrunched her nose when she grabbed that book off the shelf yesterday.

“Fishing? Like... at the shore?”

“More like on a boat.” I let out a shallow breath through my nose, half a huff, half a smile.

She stares at the lake, probably weighing pros and cons, wondering if it’s freedom or a trap.

“Sure.”

She doesn’t sound sure, but it’s a yes.

There’s no need to go fishing. I stocked up on provisions when I came to prepare the room and bring her bag. Inviting her to join me was the point. If I’d insisted, she would’ve fought me on it. What she wants right now is choice. It doesn’t matter if it’s an illusion.

We head down to the dock, barely a hundred feet from the house. When I start loading the small boat, I catch her stopping short, her focus jumping from me to the lake and back. She eyes me with suspicion, and I raise both hands immediately. “Sorry, okay? It won’t happen again.” I mean it. I still can’t believe I lost control and dumped her into the water.

She approaches slowly. “It better not.” The edge is back in her tone, and I can’t decide if that’s progress or trouble.

Close enough now, she lets me take her hand and help her onto the boat. The chill of her smooth skin is a stark contrast to mine. Once she’s seated, I shrug out of my jacket and hand it over.

A protest starts forming on her lips, but I shut it down. “I’ll be fine.”

The fear of owing me is disguised as concern. She only has that one hoodie. Her father apparently didn’t think of packing for mountain weather.