You Can Trust Me

You Can Trust Me is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.Copyright © 2023 by Wendy HeardAll rights reservedPublished in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.BANTAM BOOKS is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATANames: Heard, Wendy, author.Title: You can trust me: a novel / Wendy Heard.Description: New York: Bantam Dell, 2023.Identifiers: LCCN 2022058260 (print) | LCCN 2022058261 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593599310 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593599327 (ebook)Subjects: LCSH: California—Fiction. | LCGFT: Novels.Classification: LCC PS3608.E258 Y68 2023 (print) | LCC PS3608.E258 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20221209LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022058260LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022058261Ebook ISBN 9780593599327randomhousebooks.comBook design by Alexis Capitini, adapted for ebookCover design: The Book DesignersCover images: Anastasiia Fedorova/Shutterstock (figures), Shutterstock (various collage elements)ep_prh_6.1_143791177_c0_r0 ContentsCoverTitle PageCopyrightEpigraphPrologue: SummerChapter One: SummerChapter Two: LeoChapter Three: SummerChapter Four: SummerChapter Five: SummerChapter Six: SummerChapter Seven: LeoChapter Eight: SummerChapter Nine: LeoChapter Ten: SummerChapter Eleven: SummerChapter Twelve: LeoChapter Thirteen: SummerChapter Fourteen: LeoChapter Fifteen: SummerChapter Sixteen: SummerChapter Seventeen: SummerChapter Eighteen: LeoChapter Nineteen: SummerChapter Twenty: SummerChapter Twenty-one: LeoChapter Twenty-two: SummerChapter Twenty-three: LeoChapter Twenty-four: SummerChapter Twenty-five: LeoChapter Twenty-six: SummerChapter Twenty-seven: LeoChapter Twenty-eight: SummerChapter Twenty-nine: LeoChapter Thirty: SummerChapter Thirty-one: LeoChapter Thirty-two: SummerChapter Thirty-three: SummerChapter Thirty-four: SummerChapter Thirty-five: SummerChapter Thirty-six: LeoChapter Thirty-seven: SummerChapter Thirty-eight: LeoChapter Thirty-nine: SummerChapter Forty: LeoChapter Forty-one: SummerChapter Forty-two: LeoChapter Forty-three: SummerChapter Forty-four: LeoChapter Forty-five: SummerChapter Forty-six: SummerDedicationAcknowledgmentsBy Wendy HeardAbout the Author_143791177_ I could not help it:the restlessness was in my nature.—CHARLOTTE BRONTË, JANE EYRE PROLOGUESUMMERSAN FRANCISCOI learned to pick a pocket when I was about eight.I was panhandling with my mother and two of her interchangeably bohemian friends at the Embarcadero in San Francisco. While they sat cross-legged beside a handprinted sign that read, “The light in me honors the light in you,” my job was to scope out the tourists and approach likely donors with a sad little wave. “I’m sorry, excuse me, I was just wondering if you could spare any change for my mother and me,” I’d say in a trembling, timid voice, like this was the first time I’d done this, like we were embarrassed to be reduced to panhandling.I approached this one woman, a middle-aged white lady with her husband in tow, thinking she looked like someone’s grandma and would probably be a good mark. Adult me would warn kid me—this type of woman is not to be approached.“I’m so sorry, but could you spare any change for my mom and me?” I asked, smiling sheepishly and presenting my collection tin.She stopped walking and stared down at me, lips pinching together. “Where is your mother?”Thinking she wanted proof that I wasn’t alone, I pointed back to where my mom was in Buddha pose by her namaste sign, eyes closed, lips curved upward in a faint smile. She was meditating, focusing on manifesting what we needed today, which was two hundred dollars. Her friends languished beside her, sharing a joint and calling out “Peace” to the passersby.The fake grandma took me by the arm, marched me through the throngs of tourists, and presented me to my mother. “Excuse me. Is this your daughter?”Her hazel eyes flew open and flicked between me and the lady holding my arm. “She is,” my mom replied, ever calm.“How dare you have her begging for your drug money! What is wrong with you? I should call the police.”I felt my stomach drop out of my gut and onto the floor. The police were our biggest fear. My mom’s friends exchanged a worried glance, but she just cocked her head and studied the woman.“We’re truly sorry to have upset you,” my mom said. “She offered to help. I thought it was a nice gesture, and I felt badly discouraging it.” She could be like this: well spoken, reminding me that she’d gone to school, something she didn’t make me do. “The world is your school,” she always told me, but the world wasn’t going to teach me to read, so I stole books and learned from them on my own.The woman glowered down at her. “She should be taken away from you. You can’t raise a child like this.”Panicked and angry, I wrenched my arm out of her grip. In the twisting motion, I noticed the twenty-dollar bill sticking partway out of the back pocket of her khaki pants, folded into a store receipt.My mother stood, the soft cotton of her long skirt billowing around her ankles. She was a lovely woman, her honey-colored hair wavy to her waist, her light tank top silky around her loose breasts. “May I pray for you?” she asked. “We’re going through a hard time, but it seems like you may be going through something as well.”The woman’s face was shocked, hurt, and then something totally unexpected—tears sprang to her eyes and her face flushed bright red.“You may not,” she hissed. She turned her back and stormed off.With no adults looking, my hand snaked over, pinched the twenty, and as she walked away, it slipped out of her pocket and into my hand.And so I learned my first lesson about pickpocketing: The target must be distracted, and the friction of the item leaving their pocket must blend in with the friction they feel from movement. Pickpocketing requires empathy, knowing how it feels to be in someone’s body, even the micro things like how their pants fit around the hips, how their purse slings across the chest.My mom didn’t notice. She was sitting back down, arranging her skirt.I palmed the twenty. I could hide it, buy things with it, save it for the inevitable rainy day when our van broke down in the middle of nowhere and my mom decided to suddenly realize that the universe does not in fact provide things like mechanics.I shoved it deep into my pocket. It