Page 37 of Trust

The sun is cresting the horizon as we push out to the middle of the lake, streaks of pink and blue painting the water.

I show her how to thread the line, how to cast, where the shadows hold fish. She listens closely but learns fast that theory and practice are worlds apart. On her first try, the hook snags my sweater, yanking it hard. One hand flies to her mouth, catching the startled laugh slipping out anyway, and it forces a smile out of me in return.

It takes another four attempts before the hook finally arcs cleanly and lands with a soft plop on the water.

“Not bad,” I praise.

The water laps against the wood. Out here, it’s so peaceful we both forget to be suspicious.

“Oh my god, I got one!” Her shout erupts across the lake, sending a family of ducks into panicked flight, wings flapping and quacking like mad.

“Easy,” I tell her quickly. “Don’t yank. Lift the rod... yeah, like that. Keep the line taut. Let it fight, but don’t give it too much room. Now slowly reel.”

She follows every word, her face set with determination. “That’s it,” I say, almost grinning. “You’ve got it.”

Silver thrashes as the trout bursts through the surface, and I scoop it into the net. The thing smacks against the floor, tail beating hard, body twisting like it’s trying to break the boat in half.

She stares at it wide-eyed. “You’re not gonna throw it back in?”

I blink at her. “That fish isn’t going anywhere but the pan. You caught our dinner,” I state, hoping she won’t go vegetarian now.

After I stow everything in the cooler, I turn the boat and start rowing for shore. The paddles cut into the water with soft splashes, the rhythm almost meditative.

This is the first real chance I’ve had to see her unguarded, without fear or stubbornness getting in the way. The cold has flushed her cheeks, her hair a blazing red in the sunlight. Storybook-perfect, if not for the bulky jacket hanging off her frame.

For once, her expression holds nothing hostile. What’s left is almost relaxed.

On our way to the kitchen, I ask her to set the table while I take care of the fish so it’ll be ready to fry tonight.

“You mean this isn’t Hotel Chris, where I get three meals a day and around-the-clock action and entertainment?”

The way she says my name gets my attention. She’s definitely coming back to herself, and I take the bait. “No, princess. This is Bootcamp Chris. Where you learn how to fish and study for your SATs.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

“I’m a lucky guy,” I mutter, pulling open the cabinet to show her where the breakfast supplies are stashed.

Despite the sarcasm, she sets the table outside while I clean the trout. There it is again, that strange domestic atmosphere. I’ve always known the definition, but the experience is new.

Over breakfast, she catches me off guard. “Why do you keep calling me princess?”

“Because that’s what I thought you were,” I answer. “A pampered little brat who’d never had to pay the price for her mistakes.”

She lowers her head, her fingers digging into her arm. “What about now?”

I set my spoon aside and study her. I remember the shed, her breaking apart in the dark, and I know there’s more beneath the surface than she’ll let me see. But I’m not here to dig. This stays a job, even if my conditions have changed. The election will pass, and we’ll both move on. “I know you’re not,” I say instead, keeping it light. “So what do you want me to call you?”

Her gaze lifts. “Sara’s fine,” she answers, no edge in her tone.

“Sara.” I let the syllables roll over my tongue. “I can work with that.”

After the cleanup, she drops onto the bench again. I pull out the stack Whitmore packed: notebooks, pencils, a pile of SAT prep guides—punishment disguised as books.

Her jaw slackens. “You were serious?” she says, staring at me as if I’ve completely lost it.

I spread the supplies across the table. “What you do with this is your choice. Don’t forget you’ve got a future after you return home. These things could help you get there faster.” Wow, I sound like a counselor.

Her gaze drops to the floor.