Page 6 of Trust

He’s home. Arguing with someone.

I creep closer, catching only fragments through the dining room door: board... under control... too late... daughter.

Shit. Is Gabe getting in trouble for my tardiness this morning? Guilt claws its way in. What if he gets fired?

He doesn’t deserve that. Not for trying to keep me safe. I may not like the rules, but this part’s on me.

I slip inside, ready to take the hit myself, only to stop cold. Gabe leans over the table, fists planted, looming above my father, who sits there with sagging shoulders and a hanging head. The scene unfolding before me makes me question who’s firing who. The second they spot me, both straighten, clearing my view of the table. There it is. My phone. Shit.

“You’re dismissed for the night. See you tomorrow.” Whatever this is, Richard’s ending it.

Gabe’s face melts back into his driver’s mask. As he passes me, his eyes flicker with annoyance. Or concern? Or is it anger? I can’t tell.

“Sit.”

Richard’s voice cracks like a whip. When I sit, his eyes sweep over me with coldness laced with disappointment and a hint of disdain. No surprise there.

“Do you have something to tell me?”

“Nope.” I push up from the chair. Gabe is not fired. That’s all I care about.

In a flash his hand clamps around my wrist, slamming it down on the table. Pain shoots through me.

“We are not done!”

His face twists with fury, on the edge of breaking loose. His grip tightens until I give in and lower myself into the chair again.

“One more stunt,” he snarls, “one more attempt to step out of line and I will send you to a school overseas. One with iron gates, no Wi-Fi, and enough surveillance to make the CIA jealous. Maybe then you’ll learn some respect and actually get a high school diploma.”

I huff. “You wouldn’t. I’m practically eighteen!”

He pulls me closer, “Try me.”

You could cut the tension with a knife. So far, he’s never hit me, but I also wouldn’t put it past him.

My fist curls at my side, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear.

“On Saturday, you’ll be at the rally. You’ll smile. You’ll deliver. One complaint, one wrong word, and you’re gone.”

Without waiting for permission, I tug myself free of his grip, grab my phone and flee to my room, taking the stairs two at a time. I slam my door shut behind me, throw myself onto the bed face-first, and yell into the pillow. It’s muffled, but it still rattles through my chest, releasing some of that pent-up anger.

He wants me smiling for the voters, playing the perfect puppet, but I’m done being his prop.

I grit my teeth, fighting the lump in my throat. I won’t cry. The last time I cried I was twelve and a TV reporter shoved a mic in my face, asking what I missed most about my mom. I broke down in tears, weeping bitterly as more people with cameras and smartphones crowded around me, their stares full of that awful, useless pity.

Never again.

Sitting up, I press my fingers to my temples, trying to mute the noise in my head. But one thought won’t let go:

Why did he give me back my phone?

THE NOTEBOOK

Sara

Mr. Thompson’s monotone needles through the room like water dripping into a metal bucket beneath a leaking roof: slow, relentless and increasingly maddening.

Arms folded, I sag back in my seat, absorbed in the sway of a girl’s ponytail in front of me.