Page 95 of Brutal Game

“I know you’re not a liar, Aviva. Not about this, at least. I’m sorry that I thought that for so long. But your brother?—”

“My brother is telling the truth!”

“You don’t know Coach the way I do, Aviva.”

How did you get through to someone so set in their worldview?

“No,youdon’t know your Coach. You only think you do. I know you think you can read people so well, but you have this huge blind spot when it comes to him. And it makes sense, given your history with him.”

No response. It was like arguing with a wall.

I pushed forward. “Men, especially men with power and authority, often put on a mask to keep society happy. All to hide the monster inside. You should know that better than anyone.”

Jack’s nostrils flared at the pointed accusation. But hewasa monster, with a golden boy mask. How angry was he at me for pointing out the truth?

“Fine,” he said. “You think your brother’s telling the truth? Prove it.”

30

Aviva

It only took a minute to unlock Coach Jensen’s door, but it felt like a lifetime. Jack didn’t speak, only stared at me. Finally, the locking mechanism clicked, and I turned the big brass doorknob, pulling the door open.

Jack waved his hand in front of him, a clearafter you.

I paused, overcome, blinking rapidly to keep the grateful tears at bay. Even though Jack still didn’t believe that his coach had sexually abused Asher, he believedme.He no longer thought I was a liar.

Not only that, he was helping. He’d never done that before, but here he was, guiding me into his coach’s office. It had to be a betrayal. Was he choosing me? Could I let myself think that? Or should I be suspicious of this reversal? It was a new feeling, this tiny bit of hope, this wish to trust him. Like a seedling in the ground, desperate for sun, waiting to grow.

I shook it off and stepped inside.

The office was a cross between professor and sports bar.Big mahogany bookshelves lined the left wall of the room, books likeThe Art of WarandHow to Influence Peopleinterspersed with trophies. On the right wall, framed photographs hung, of Joshua Jensen shaking hands with people: the university provost, the mayor, the former governor, and a number of fancy people I couldn’t name. In the middle of the wall was a framed photo of a younger Joshua with a younger Jack, arms slung around each other, looking happy and caring.

Out of the corner of my eye, Jack swallowed, his right hand fisting again. Words tumbled into my mouth in a tangled heap, but I didn’t release any of them. After all, what was there to say?

A mahogany desk stood in the center of the room. It matched the bookcases in its intimidating authority. I saw past it, to the computer on the desk.

“Jackpot,” I said.

Jack snorted.

I walked around to the back of the desk, pushing the leather chair out of the way and turning on the computer. A moment later, it asked for a password.

“Jack, do you know?—”

“Yes.”

“Can you give it to me?”

He hesitated.

“Please, Jack, let me prove it to you.”

Shaking his head, he said, “The password is Fr0z3n4.”

I typed it in and hit return. A few seconds later, I was greeted by the desktop. I began scrolling through documents and files, looking for the damn videos.

Nothing.

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