Page 74 of Trust

Stix doesn’t react much but watches her closely.

Sara’s eyes dart down. She mutters a line about SATs and books, and I swear she forgets how to use her legs for a second when she retreats upstairs.

Victory.

Once we’re outside, I laugh.

“You’re evil,” he tells me.

I shrug. “Technically, I saved you.”

“Technically, I wanted her reaction.”

“To what?”

“A push. Just a little one. She still lets her emotions lead.” He’s serious now. “She’s focused, capable, intelligent, but back her into a corner or try to control her, and the switch flips instantly. She doesn’t just react, she resists. Even if it costs her. That’s going to be a problem when she’s back in public. We’re almost out of time. She needs a stress test.”

That coping strategy doesn’t serve her most of the time. She’s razor-tongued and keen-eyed, always scanning for weak spots, someone who’s had to defend herself for too long. Just like when we went for that walk and she tried her hardest to bait me with her snarky sarcasm. She talks herself into trouble before she realizes it. She’s survived by defiance and nerve, but that won’t hold up when she goes home. There will be eyes on her, eyes we don’t know yet, or rather I don’t know yet. Chris recognized Mariana’s killer, knows where to find him, and he doesn’t tell me shit. He wants to stop me from going after the guy. What he underestimates is how determined I am to keep Sara here at the slightest hint of danger. I’ll figure it out myself.

We grab the first crate from the back of the van. It’s heavy. This actually will turn into a workout.

The world still tastes like wet earth and the storm’s tang. The ground gives beneath my boots, slick enough to annoy. We move in silence for a few minutes, making several trips to the van and back until I finally say it. “She’ll hate us for putting her through a stress test.” She wouldn’t need one if she just stayed.

We set the last boxes down on the porch. Her silhouette appears in the living room window, curled over some SAT prep book she’s pretending to read. I know she isn’t taking in a single word. Not after the way we flustered her.

He shrugs. “At first.”

The last thing I want is to picture her in her father’s world again, with the cameras, the fake smiles, and the kind of people who shake your hand while deciding how to bury you. Not that different from the world I grew up in.

The Board is real. I’m sure of it, even if Stix isn’t convinced. They’re watching, or worse, they’re waiting. She’ll always be leverage. Her stubborn streak and that blade of a mouth won’t stand against them. I wouldn’t want to change any of it. The way she is now is perfect, but if you don’t have the weapons or the resources to fight back, discipline is the next best thing.

“She needs to learn when to hold the fire and when to let it loose,” Stix says, his voice low. “To pick her moments. Know when to speak, and when to keep her mouth shut.”

“It’ll work better if we make it a challenge. She’s wired backward. Easy loses her, hard locks her in,” I suggest, and I catch that glint in his eye. He’s already scheming.

I let out a breath and picture the scene: the yelling, the fighting, the breaking. Then the change, the first light of understanding when she realizes we’re not trying to snuff her out but to sharpen her edge. “She needs to stay safe and alive,” I say, and I’m not really talking about the lesson.

We don’t discuss it further. The plan is already shaping itself between us, an unspoken map of drills, limits, and tests. Whether she wants to or not, we’re going to teach her to use that fire and aim it where it matters. Even if I hope she’ll never have to.

DISCIPLINE

Sara

Iwant to throw things,” I say when Cash opens a hard case full of stabbing weapons on the porch.

They line up targets across the yard. Logs, a dangling tin can, and three small sandbags swinging from a low branch almost resemble a parkour course, if those involved sharp objects.

Cash marks distances by placing rocks from the lakeside on the ground, each one farther from the targets.

“Start the timer,” he calls to Chris, who gives a thumbs-up, then picks up the first knife. A clean throw results in a center hit on the log. He moves on to the next. Fast, but never rushed. Pick up, aim, release. Another hit. He misses one, but I’m sure it’s on purpose so he doesn’t discourage me. That “whoops” and his grin pretty much give it away.

“Forty-six seconds,” Chris says.

“Beat me,” Cash grins.

“Oh, come on. Don’t I get a handicap or something?” I bargain.

“Fifteen extra seconds and one more miss.” He collects the knives, then stops beside me, resting a hand briefly on my back. “Show me what you’ve got, sparkplug.”