Chapter 22
Maren
Trevor stops a few feet inside my trailer, his big body blocking my view. “Holy shit.”
“Move.” I shove at his back, but he doesn’t budge. “How bad is it?”
“Bad enough you need to turn around and go sit in the van with Zara.” Trevor’s voice is eerily calm. “Now.”
Does this prick seriously think he can fuck me into submission? “I know you didn’t just—”
He spins to face me, the move so sudden it sends me tipping back in surprise. Before I can flail around for balance, Trevor’s warm palm is spread across my back, steadying me.
He leans down, eyes aligning with mine. “I’m not trying to be a dick, Maren.” His free hand curves along the line of my jaw. “This is your home. You don’t need to see it like this.”
“Trust me. I lived in places that look way worse than this does now.” I don’t even need to see inside for confirmation. “I have to look. The police need me to tell them if anything is missing.”
Trevor’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching tight. Because he knows I’m right. I appreciate that he’s trying to shield me from this, but whatever is beyond that door won’t be nearly as shocking as he thinks.
After a few more tense seconds, he finally relents, barely shifting his body to one side to reveal the trashed inside of the trailer Zara and I share. Trevor’s big body stiffens next to me as I take it all in, the hand that was on my back curving to grip my hip as he pulls me tighter to his side.
I know he’s expecting a specific sort of reaction from me, and I kinda wish that was what he would get. I wish I felt the kind of horror and sadness most people would in this situation.
Instead, I’m just tired. Pissed my sister’s life is being touched by our mother’s bad decisions. Exhausted, I’m cleaning up yet another of her messes.
Literally.
“I would say most of my electronics are probably gone.” I step over the threshold, ready to get this show on the road. The sooner I figure out what’s going on, the faster the police can make a list of the items I’ll never see again, and the quicker I can make a claim with my renter’s insurance.
Because I learned the hard way I’m not the kind of person who can’t have renters insurance.
The police officer who’s handling the investigation follows me around as I point out everything that was taken. She dutifully makes a list on her pad as I make one in my head so I can recount it to my agent later.
All the televisions are gone, along with the microwave.
The box containing my cheap costume jewelry is missing.
So is the high-end blender I use to make smoothies and milkshakes.
Shockingly, my work laptop is still in its bag, but that’s likely because the dillholes who went through the place didn’t think to look in the basket under the entry table where I store it.
Once I’ve gone through each room, the detective scans her report. “What about money? Did you have any cash they might have stolen?”
I snort. “Absolutely not. With a mother like mine, you learn real quick to keep money where she can’t get her hands on it.”
I’ve had a bank account since the day I turned eighteen. Before that, I kept any money I made in my locker at school. Because if Janine Lucas knew I had something she could find a way to turn into drugs, she would do everything in her power to obtain it.
I’m actually a little surprised she didn’t try to do that with Zara. I don’t know what saved my sister from one of the many horrifying fates she could have suffered, but I’m so fucking grateful it did.
The police officer finishes her remaining questions, then leaves me her card, telling me to call if I come up with anything else that’s missing.
When she’s gone, I do a slow spin, blowing out all the air in my lungs as I look over the work ahead of me. “I probably should’ve figured this was coming.”
“How could you have known this would be coming?” Trevor asks the question carefully. He’s not incredulous. Or angry. He doesn’t phrase it in the way most people would—as if there’s no way I could have anticipated my house getting trashed.
Because he seems to have figured out there’s more to this story.
It’s not a story I enjoy telling, so I make the best attempt I can at getting out of it. “You mean besides by watching all the cameras you have pointed at my house?”
When I was getting dressed and Trevor’s phone started vibrating and lighting up, I assumed it was work emails, so I grabbed it to bring it to him.
Because I’m nice like that. I’m also nosy, so I totally looked at the thumbnails populating the screen, expecting to see messages from suppliers and maybe even the security team at McKinley.
Instead, I saw images of my house and notifications of movement on my porch.
But Trevor doesn’t bite on my diversion. He rolls right with the punch. “I definitely mean besides watching the cameras I have pointed at your house.”
“Fine.” I step away, crouching down to pick up my favorite blanket from where it’s heaped in a pile next to the shattered remnants of my glass coffee table. “But just so we’re clear, there is going to be a discussion about all the cameras. That’s not healthy behavior.”
“I’ll bring it up to my therapist.” Trevor takes the blanket from my hands, urging me away from the mess. “I take it this has happened before?”
“My mother is a lifelong drug user who owes money to every dealer in a fifty-mile radius. Of course this has happened before.”
I love the Internet, don’t get me wrong. It allows me to shop during my lunch break and order dinner from the comfort of my own couch. It also means every mouth-breather my mom buys from can easily track me down.
“Why would they come here?” Trevor diverts me when I move toward the kitchen where my refrigerator has been tipped over, the contents spilling across the floor. “You don’t have anything to do with your mom’s… habits.”
“They come here because she tells them to.” I haven’t spoken with my mother in years, but that doesn’t mean she’s out of my life. “Whatever they took from here will go to a pawn shop to pay off whatever she owes.”
Trevor stops in his tracks, expression hard as stone as he stares at me. “Your mother sends fucking criminals to steal from you to feed her habit? Knowing you’re taking care of Zara?”
I get the outrage. At one point in my life I was probably outraged about it too. But this is just the way it is. The way it’s always been. “I know it’s hard for you to understand because your mom is awesome, but that’s not the life everyone gets.”
It’s probably as weird for him to think about a mother like mine as it is for me to conceive of having a mother like his.
After growing up the way I did, it’s nearly impossible for me to imagine what Trevor’s childhood was like.
Our upbringings couldn’t be more different.
I grew up in shitty apartments and rundown motels.
Learned what it felt like to be hungry in a way most people will never experience.
I got myself up for school, put on the cleanest clothes I could find, and walked to the bus stop all by myself at an age where most kids can’t even wipe their own ass.
Trevor slept in a warm, clean bed. He ate home-cooked food and had help with his homework. He was loved. Cherished. Cared for. Protected.
All things I’ve never known.
Swiveling away, I right a tipped pillar candle on the rack that used to hold my microwave. “My mother will always find some way to use me, Trevor.” I turn to him, my breath catching at the expression on his face.
“No.” He moves closer, bringing the fierce determination tightening his handsome face to my level. “She won’t.”
I don’t know if I’m overwhelmed or frustrated or off balance from having someone here to help me deal with this, but for some reason his declaration makes me laugh. Not because I don’t appreciate it—I do. It’s just not realistic.
“You would be shocked at how creative she can be.” I think back to all the times she’s managed to squeeze just a little more out of me.
I’ve had the catalytic converter stolen off multiple cars.
Change swiped from the console back when I had a Camry with doors that didn’t latch properly.
One time, she even managed to get the temp agency I was working for to direct deposit one of my paychecks into some random account.
It’s actually really sad to think about how successful my mother could have been if she’d channeled her creativity and motivation into something that wasn’t fucked-up.
I close my eyes for a moment and huff out a dry laugh. “It might take her a minute, but she’ll come up with a way to get me.”
Trevor slowly shakes his head, dark gaze completely serious. “No. She won’t.”
I tip my head, lifting my brows. “I get that you—”
There’s sudden movement at the front door, and I panic, thinking Zara has managed to get herself out of the van. But it’s not my sister coming inside. It’s a whole fucking crowd of people.
With Deidre Bradshaw at the head.
“Oh my goodness.” She scans my embarrassingly messy house. “I understand why we’re all here now.” Her eyes lift to me, swinging to Trevor before coming back to rest on my face. “Where do you want me to start, honey?”
“You don’t have to help clean this up.” I’m actually horrified at the thought of world-famous Deidre Bradshaw digging through my secondhand belongings. “Seriously. It’s really not that bad. I’ll have everything back to normal in a couple days.”
“They aren’t here to clean up, Maren.” Trevor’s voice is deep and firm as he squares his shoulders. “They’re here to pack.”
Again, the differences in our upbringings and lifestyles are abundantly clear.
“I can’t just move because someone broke in, Trevor. My lease on this place isn’t up for six more months, and I don’t have anywhere else lined up. I—”
“I’ll pay off your lease.” He points toward the back bedroom, his attention on his mother. “That’s Zara’s room. Start there.”