Page 34 of The Trust We Broke
An awkward pause hangs between us as Adam tilts his head to peer over my shoulder into the room. He can see nothing except a tote bag on the table.
“Did you need something else?” I ask.
Adam shakes his head. “I just wanted to return this.” He holds the copy of the Harvard Law Review he borrowed, and hands me the beast of a book.
“Great. Thanks. I’ll put it back.” My lips feel taut as I force a smile onto my face.
“Good. Well, have a great day.”
“You too.”
I return the book to the shelf and then lock the door again. I reach for the notebooks, but it’s clear there are no easy answers so I leave them where they are. And given the way my heart lurches at every little sound, I know I won’t be able to focus here.
By the time I have zipped my tote bag tightly closed, and locked the hidden drawer, the hallway is empty.
I place my hand over the tote bag on my shoulder. Now, it contains precious cargo. Step one will be figuring out how to break into the phone. And deciding if I’m going to open the envelope.
I hurry along the hallway and down the stairs, praying I won’t have to make small talk with anyone else.
When I step out of the law firm, the sun is shining, but the air is crisp. I pull my jacket tightly around my middle and head toward my father’s truck.
Anxiety pulses through me. A blend of fear of being caught, with the heady power of feeling as though I uncovered something important. It pushes my feet forward on the sidewalk as I hurry to the truck, until I also see two men standing next to their bikes in front of it. The patches on their backs are that of the Midtown Rebels. As if sensing my gaze, they look up at the same time and see me, and there is an immediate shift in their body language.
“Baby lawyer,” the one who kissed my hand the previous evening says.
Gulch.
So close in name to Grudge, and yet, worlds away.
The second man stands a little straighter and reaches for something inside his cut. I tense, fearing the worst.
“What do you want?” I ask, mad at the slight waver of fear in my voice. I take a deep breath to control it.
He smiles. “My president just wants to talk with you.”
I glance around. “Just spit it out, whatever it is. I don’t have time for games.”
There are people milling about farther down the street. The Rainbow Diner is just a block away.
It’s closer to me than it is to them. But they’re probably faster than I am if I run.
“I have no intention of speaking with your president.” I start the slow and steady edging away, backtracking to the intersection.
“If you value your father’s life, you will.”
A million negotiating strategies flash through my head. Ones that get me information, ones that get me to safety, one that uncovers motivations. But I opt for the obvious. “You overestimate just how much my father’s life actually means to me.”
My comment catches them off guard as they spare a quick glance at one another. It takes me a split second to decide.
The soles of my shoes slap firmly on the sidewalk as I clasp the bag tightly and hurry toward the diner. I try not to focus on what the bikers are doing, but it’s impossible to ignore the thud of boots as they move toward me.
My run turns into a sprint, and so does theirs.
“Shit,” I mutter. My phone is buried in my bag, which jostles on my shoulder. My breath comes out in crisp puffs.
Weirdly, I wonder when I should scream.
They’re closing in on me, but just as I get close to the diner and finally cry out for help, a large truck swerves in front of me. Grudge is driving, but his mom is in the passenger seat.
