Building Trust

Sarah snatched the folder from Elena’s hand, the blue cardstock rough against her bleeding fingertips. She didn't look at the commitment order. She couldn't. The phantom weight of the bloody jacket in her trunk felt like a bomb wired to her spine, and Elena was currently leaning on the detonator.

"I have work to do, Elena," Sarah said, her voice hollow and metallic. "Leave the sandwiches on the porch. I'm busy."

"You're always busy, Sarah. That’s the chaos talking." Elena pushed off the trunk, her movements fluid and dangerously graceful. She adjusted the cuff of her silk dress, her eyes lingering on the raw, splinter-gouged skin of Sarah's hands. "I'll let Mark know you're still... resistant. But the judge doesn't need your consent."

Sarah watched the Lexus reverse out of the driveway, the tires crunching over the gravel like teeth grinding bone. As soon as the black SUV vanished around the corner, Sarah sprinted back to the porch. She didn't go inside. She looked across the narrow strip of dead grass toward the Thorne house.

David was there, a shadow sitting behind a rusted screen door.

Sarah crossed the property line without hesitating. She didn't knock. She stood on the sagging porch, the wood groaning beneath her feet. The smell of stale tobacco and unwashed laundry drifted through the screen.

"I found it, David," she whispered, her face pressed against the mesh. "Under the floorboards in the back closet. The letterman jacket."

A chair scraped against linoleum inside. David appeared at the door, his face a map of misery. He looked over Sarah’s shoulder toward Margaret’s darkened windows, his eyes wide with a fear that hadn't aged a day since 1999.

"You need to leave, Sarah," he croaked. "Your mother is watching. She's always watching."

"She's burning the records, David. She’s erasing everything Elena did to you." Sarah leaned closer, the screen door cold against her forehead. "I know it wasn't a hunting accident. I know it was an experiment. I have the logs from the facility."

David’s breath hitched, a sharp, wet sound in the quiet evening. He reached up, his fingers trembling as they fumbled with the top button of his shirt. He hesitated, his gaze darting one last time toward the Victorian next door, before he finally yanked the collar aside.

The scar on David's neck was visible now. The same scar from the police report Evelyn mentioned.