Page 19 of Twisted Trust

“Shit,” Chip sighs.

“I let myself get sidetracked by her,” I mutter, gripping the glass tightly. “I should have left her to die in the parking lot. It’s no different from what she did to me.”

Chip nods slowly. “But you didn’t.”

I remain silent.

“Why?”

I look at him as the wind picks up and tugs at the collar of my shirt. “I don’t know. After all these years, I was shocked to see her. I want to make it hurt. I want her to feel a fraction of what I went through.”

“And if Naz is right?” Chip’s words cut into me like wire. “If it wasn’t her, or worse, she wasn’t working alone?”

My attention drops to my empty glass and I set it precariously onto the railing. “Either way, I’m not letting her get to me again. I’ll find her and I’ll kill her. The rest doesn’t matter.”

“And the kid?”

My heart skips a beat.

The kid.

What do we do about the kid?

5

MAEVE

Child Protective Services? Here? Now?

I glance at the beaten-up plastic clock hanging within view in my kitchen.

It’s seven in the morning.

Why the hell are they here so early?

Why are they here at all?

My heart starts to hammer faster and faster as Hillary once again knocks abruptly on the door.

“Miss Jackson!”

Shit.

I fake a yawn to hide how alert their sudden visit has made me and slowly unlock the door. “I’m here, Jesus. It’s so early.”

Opening it, Hillary Sinclair stands on the other side with a folder clutched in one hand and her keys dangling from an obnoxiously overcrowded keychain in the other.

Her graying hair is scooped painfully back from her face and held in place by several pins, and oval spectacles balance on the end of her pointed nose.

“About time,” she says stiffly.

“Sorry I didn’t move fast enough after being woken up at the ass crack of dawn.” Talking smart to Hillary is never a good idea, but I’d rather she think I’m irritable from sleep than stressed for any other reason.

Hillary glances up from the file in her arm and her eyes widen into saucers. “Miss Jackson…” Trailing off, she steps past me and into my apartment. “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”

“I’m sure I have no clue.” Closing the door after her, I turn to face Hillary and immediately catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window behind her.

My throat is a patchwork of dark bruises, gauze peeks out from the collar of my housecoat, a bruise shadows my left eye, and several stitches cling to the laceration on my forehead.