Page 4 of Twisted Trust

“What of it? We get on great as it is. I’d just have to pick him up from school, right? And then it would be like all the other times I’ve watched him.”

“But I can’t pay you this time.”

“Mae.” Cameron’s voice turns stern. “Not every good deed requires payment, okay?”

He’s offering me a lifeline and I’d be a fool not to take it.

But every good deed is just a debt that hasn’t been called in yet.

Before I can answer, tiredness drives Scott back to his earlier unstable mood and he begins to wail, which brings the attention of every other diner.

“Damn, I have to go. I’ll think about it, Cameron. Thank you!”

Ending the call, I hurry back to Scott and quickly take his hand. “Come on, buddy, you don’t want the rest of your fries?”

He answers me with a wail so loud that it makes my spine twitch.

The allure of fast food can only appease for so long. I try to guide him out of the booth but he resists with every pull, eventually lying flat down on the seat so I have to pull him out by his legs.

I try to scoop him up and carry him out, but as soon as he starts crying, Scott becomes this impossible bundle of squirming limbs, tears, and little sharp nails.

It’s a miracle I get us both out of the restaurant in one piece.

“Stop it!” I snap at him as I set him back down on the ground. “I know you’re tired but we’re going home now, okay? Home and to bed.”

“I don’t wanna go to bed!” he yells, pulling back on my hand as I walk toward my car.

“You do, you just don’t know it.”

“I don’t!” he yells, fighting my grip on his wrist. Each scrape of his nails against my forearm and tug of his weight against my hold drives my irritation higher and higher.

All logic flees my mind as the stress of the day mingles with a screaming four-year-old, and I’m at the end of my rope.

“Scott—”

As I spin around to yell at him, something dull and heavy collides with my face.

Scott’s little wrist slips from my grasp as my head snaps back, and all sense of balance vanishes from my mind until I hit the tarmac of the parking lot.

A sharp whine rings in my ears and pain throbs through my cheek and jaw.

What the fuck!?

Shaking my head, I glance up just in time to see the fist flying toward my face, and it takes all my strength to roll out of the way.

As I roll, my bag snags on something and stops me from rolling too far.

It takes me a split-second to realize the snag is my attacker—he has one meaty fist around the strap of my bag and the other is against flying toward my face.

“Give me the fucking bag!” yells a deep voice from behind a black balaclava.

Instinct has me clinging to it, and I kick one leg out toward the mugger’s ankle, but he sidesteps and then turns to where Scott is cowering in fear next to the trunk of my car.

“No!” Lunging upward, I make it to my knees and wrap both arms around the mugger’s leg, dragging him backward and away from my son.

He twists in my grip and his fist smashes down onto my face once more, sending a flood of pain through my entire skull.

“Take the bag!” I yell through the blood flooding my mouth from where my teeth cut into my cheek. “Take it!”