Fighting For Hope

Chapter Ten

"When I tell you I trust you, don't make me regret it."

—

TYLER'S POV

My hands underwent a frigid winter. The drink I clasped virtually slipped. My broadened eyes fixed on Hope in disbelief. It was the first time she spoke voluntarily.

My heart sped unreasonably. It was not a massive deal, but it indicated a lot. She trusted me out of everyone from the last six years with her voice.

"You couldn't?" I restated, and she bobbed her head. It made no sense. "Why are you speaking right now?"

"I trust you," she told me, leaving me at a loss of words.

I wanted to ask what precisely I did to earn her faith but kept the subject to myself. Instead, I smothered a grin in reply, and we made our way to my car after we finished our little snack.

I assisted in carrying some of the bags into her place while she grabbed the rest of them. She dropped them off outside the wardrobe in her room and paced back to the living room. As she walked, she grabbed the book she continually carried around and placed it on my hand.

"Remember when you promised me a favour?" she asked, and I provided a gesture of agreement. She had once supported me, and it was only right to return the favour.

"It's not that simple." She sighed, and I induced her to expand on her statement. I was still dumbfounded and delighted that she spoke.

Slowly and deliberately, I opened the book in my hand. Though I had previously browsed through a page the night before, I was still curious about every written word.

"What is this?" I prodded.

"Ten years ago, I witnessed a murder." She paused, looking back at me with eyes with no emotion in the slightest bit. As if it carried no relevance.

"Yeah?" I was not sure where the conversation was going.

Questions sprang into my head. Hope was only eight, ten years ago. How was she able to get images of revolting death out of her mind?

"I watched as my father died with my own two eyes." As she summoned her words, I felt like every wisp of air was purloined from my lungs. It was not a stranger which she watched got killed; it was her father.

"It was in the hands of my mother and stepfather," she continued.

My mouth went dry. This girl in front of me was different as I noticed from the beginning. She was strong because she learned independence the hard way. She lived alone without a father figure and a mom who is certainly not trustworthy.

"Do they know you saw them commit the murder?" I asked, inhaling a sharp breath.

"No," she replied simply. There was not a hint of anguish, mourn or resentment in her eyes. It was empty, unrecognizable from the usual sparkle every time she smiled. "Everyone thinks my father died from suicide. There is no proof of any kind showing my stepfather and mother committed the murder."

"That's because my stepfather is Calvin Woodland."

The name sounded extraordinarily familiar. It took me a few moments before bricks descended on my chest in realization. Calvin Woodland, the chief executive officer of Wood International Industries—a multi-million company.

"He's your stepfather?"

"He used a big amount of money to cover up the truth, and there is no proof in this world that could bring him down. But I know of a method." Her eyes darkened.