Chapter 20: Trust
School ended. Simon drove to the Buy More.
He found Chuck at the Nerd Herd desk running a diagnostic on a laptop that probably had a very mundane problem, doing it with the focused attention of someone who needed something to do with their hands while their brain worked through other things.
Simon was about to say something when a voice came from directly behind him.
"No whispering."
Simon turned.
John Casey was standing four feet away in a Buy More polo shirt that fit him the way a suit fits a filing cabinet — technically correct, fundamentally wrong. He had his arms crossed and was looking at Simon with the flat professional attention of a man who had already decided several things and was simply informing the room.
DING.
[ Chuck series protagonist detected: John Casey. First check-in available. Proceed? ]
Simon ran the mental scan. Casey's profile populated:
1. Weapons Proficiency (Expert)2. Hand-to-Hand Combat (Advanced)3. Disguise & Cover Identity (Intermediate)4. Driving Mastery (Intermediate)5. Computer Systems (Beginner)6. Composure (Passive)7. Iron Will (Advanced)8. Interrogation Techniques (Advanced)9. Physical Conditioning (Advanced)10. Psychological Pressure (Intermediate)
Ten skills. Same count as Sarah. Expert-level Weapons Proficiency. Advanced Interrogation.
Simon considered the list for half a second and made the same call he'd made with Sarah: save the slot. The Intersect daily XP was more useful right now than any single skill he could pull from Casey's profile.
Cancel.
"Mr. Casey," Simon said. He glanced at the name badge — which read CASEY in the same plain font as everyone else's, because apparently field covers included the minor indignity of retail name tags. "Didn't know you were joining us."
"Now you do." Casey looked at him the way experienced people looked at variables they hadn't fully assessed yet. "You seem like someone who asks questions."
"Only the useful ones."
"Here's a useful one for you." Casey took one step closer, which was enough given the differential in size. "Do you know what happens to civilians who insert themselves into active federal operations?"
"I'm guessing the options aren't great."
"The options are a room with no windows for an indeterminate period, or something that gets written up as an accident." He said it with the specific neutrality of someone reading from a menu. "I'm giving you this information as a courtesy."
"Chuck—" Chuck started.
"It's fine," Simon said. He kept his posture easy. "Casey. I work here. I'm going to do my job, you're going to do yours, and we're going to professionally ignore each other unless something requires otherwise." He held out his hand. "Sound workable?"
Casey looked at the hand. Did not take it. "I'll be watching."
He turned and walked toward the home theater section with the purposeful stride of someone who intended to spend his shift being difficult to approach.
Simon dropped his hand and looked at Chuck.
"Don't," Chuck said.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"Your face was saying something."
Simon turned toward the floor. "Let's go to work."
The afternoon ran the way Buy More afternoons ran — a rhythm of small problems and customer interactions that required just enough concentration to occupy the front of your mind while everything else settled in the back.
Simon helped a woman decide between two soundbars. He helped a man understand why his smart TV needed to be connected to his router. He helped a teenager explain to his father why the cheaper laptop was not, in fact, the better value.
Casey moved through the floor like a slow-moving weather system — present everywhere, warming nothing.
Chuck worked the Nerd Herd desk with the focused competence of someone who was, Simon had concluded, genuinely very good at this job and always had been.
The Intersect XP ticked up.
Around five thirty, Simon was near the back wall talking to Morgan about nothing in particular when Chuck came through the main entrance with the specific energy of someone who had just made a decision and was still in the glow of it.
"I have a date," Chuck announced.
"With Sarah?" Simon said.
"With Sarah." Chuck was smiling the way he smiled when he was trying not to smile too much. "Tonight. She called me."
Simon looked at him.
"I know what you're going to say," Chuck said.
"Do you."
"You're going to say something cautionary and slightly ominous."
"I was going to say enjoy yourself." Simon paused. "But also — remember what happened on the first date."
"That was a coincidence."
Simon said nothing.
Chuck's smile dimmed slightly. "It was probably a coincidence."
"Probably," Simon agreed, which was not the same as yes.
"I'm going anyway," Chuck said.
"I know." Simon put a hand on his shoulder. "Have a good time, Chuck. Be careful. Those two things aren't mutually exclusive."
Chuck nodded, reassembled the smile, and went to clock out.
Morgan appeared at Simon's elbow. "Think it'll go better than last time?"
"Define better," Simon said.
Morgan considered this. "No car chases."
"That's a reasonable bar." Simon grabbed his jacket. "Come on, I need to change."
Outside the Buy More, the evening was doing what California evenings did in September — warm, going gold, the kind of light that made everything look better than it was.
"Anything going on tonight?" Morgan asked, walking toward his car.
"Race out in the valley," Simon said. "Going to go watch."
"Nice." Morgan unlocked his hatchback. "Hey — if you're ever free some Saturday, come play some games with me and Chuck. It's very low stakes and somewhat embarrassing for everyone involved, which is kind of the point."
"I'll keep it in mind," Simon said. And he meant it, which surprised him slightly.
He drove to Meg's.
He texted from the curb and waited.
Three minutes later, not the usual window — Meg came through the front door. Not the second-floor window, not the oak tree. The front door, in jeans and a jacket, with the compressed energy of someone who had been sitting on something and was done sitting.
She got in the car.
Simon looked at her face.
"What happened?"
"My dad went through my room." Her voice was steady in the way that meant she was holding it steady deliberately. "Looking for a letter from a coach at school — the Spanish teacher wrote to my parents about the test results. He wanted to read it for himself." A pause. "He went through my drawers, Simon."
Simon waited.
"He's my dad," she said. The steadiness cracked slightly on the last word. "If anyone should know me — if anyone should just know without having to check—"
"He's scared for you," Simon said. "That's what this is. He hears something about his daughter and he doesn't know what's true, and scared people do things that look like mistrust but are actually panic."
Meg leaned her head back against the seat. Her eyes were wet but she wasn't crying — the same controlled refusal she'd shown all week, the same fundamental stubbornness that Simon had always found more impressive than she seemed to know.
"You trust me," she said.
"I know you," he said. "I've known you for two years. I know what you are."
"Why is that easier for you than for him?"
"Because I'm not scared of losing you." He said it simply, without making it into something bigger than it was. "When you love someone the way a parent does, everything that could hurt them becomes terrifying. He's terrified. He made a bad call because he was terrified. That's not the same as not trusting you."
Meg was quiet for a long moment.
"You should go back inside," Simon said. "Talk to him. Not because you owe him an explanation — you don't. But because it'll be worse tomorrow if you don't, and the day after worse still."
She looked at him. "I was supposed to come watch the race."
"There'll be another one." He squeezed her hand. "Actually — there's a big quarter-mile invitational coming up in a few weeks. Come to that one. Bring your whole self, not just the version that's been living through this week."
The corner of her mouth moved. "Are you racing?"
"I'm racing."
"Then I'll be there." She unbuckled her seatbelt. At the door, she turned back. "Simon."
"Yeah."
"Thank you for believing me. From the first day. Without needing to check."
"Don't thank me for that," he said. "That's just paying attention."
She got out and went inside.
He watched the door close, then pulled away from the curb.
The race location was a long industrial boulevard out past the city limits — the kind of road that existed primarily to connect two places that weren't particularly interesting, which made it ideal for what was happening there tonight.
Simon parked and found Dom's group near the starting line.
Letty spotted him first. "Solo tonight? What happened, you two already break up?"
"Letty."
"I'm asking."
"Meg's dealing with some family stuff," Simon said. "She'll be at the invitational."
"Fair enough." Letty looked him over. "You okay?"
"I'm good."
Mia was nearby, and she caught Simon's eye with the specific look of someone who had already heard about Meg's situation through the network that apparently connected everyone in their orbit without anyone formally agreeing to it.
"She okay?" Mia asked quietly.
"She will be." Simon looked toward the starting line. "What's the situation tonight? I was going to just watch."
Then he registered the presence he'd been peripherally aware of since he arrived.
Brian O'Conner was twenty feet away, leaning against a car Simon didn't recognize, talking to Vince with the specific energy of two people who had recently established they didn't like each other and were currently in the phase of pretending they might be wrong about that.
"Brian and Vince had a thing this afternoon," Mia said, in the tone she used when she was relaying information she found mildly exhausting. "Brian wants to race. He thinks it'll — help."
"With Vince or with Dom?"
"Both. Mainly Dom." She glanced toward her brother. "He's not wrong about the logic. It's just the timing."
Simon looked at Dom, who was standing near the Charger with his arms crossed and an expression of mild amusement — the expression of a man who had already decided something and was content to let events arrive at the same conclusion at their own pace.
"Dom!" Brian called across the space. The cockiness in it was deliberate — calibrated. "I believe you said something about letting me taste defeat."
The crowd that had gathered — racers, regulars, the extended ecosystem of the circuit — shifted with interest.
Dom turned slowly. "I said I'd let you taste it," he said. "I didn't say when."
"How about now?"
Dom looked at the Charger. Then at Brian's car. Then back.
"Your funeral," he said simply.
Hector had the money organized, the road blocked, and the start and finish lines marked with practiced speed. The crowd lined both sides of the boulevard with the energy of people who had shown up for exactly this and were getting their money's worth.
Simon found a spot near the finish line with a clear sightline to the start.
The two cars pulled to the line. Dom in the Charger, Brian in whatever he was running — a Mitsubishi Eclipse, which was not nothing, but was also not a Charger built and tuned by Dominic Toretto.
Hector walked to the center, turned to face the cars, and raised both arms.
The engines came up.
Simon watched both launch points, reading the throttle input from the sound.
Hector's arms dropped.
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