Page 40 of Lennox Lane

But lying beside Lennox, feeling the rage come off him like heat from pavement, Lane realized something inside her had been waiting for a witness who did not need her pain softened for their comfort.

“She accused me of trying to take her man. She looked at me,” she continued, voice quieter now, “and she saw competition instead of a daughter who had been raised in terror and trauma. She thought I was competing with her for a potbellied crackhead who got high off his own supply.”

Lennox sat up slowly, maintaining his calm. His current demeanor made Lane understand why people in the underworld whispered about the Midnight Ledger as if it were a ghost story. “What’s his name?” was all he asked.

“No,” she said sternly. “This is not the part where you turn my memory into your mission. I mean it,” she said, turning onto her side to face him. “I’m telling you because I want to. Not because I need you to go hunt ghosts for me.”

“He’s not a ghost if he’s breathing.”

A shiver moved through her that had nothing to do with fear of him and everything to do with the understanding that Lennox was capable of violence in languages most people did not even know existed. She should have been alarmed, and maybe part of her was. Another part, the seventeen-year-old who had stood in that living room with a torn sleeve and no mother, wanted to curl up in the heat of his anger and rest.

“I left that night,” Lane said before he could ask again. “Duffle bag. Trash bag. Whatever I could carry. Jeanette told me not to come crawling back. I told her she never came for me while I was there, so I didn’t expect her to come for me when I was gone.”

Lennox’s eyes closed briefly. When they opened, they shone with something that made Lane’s throat tighten. She was grateful it wasn’t pity because she never needed pity. In his eyes she saw grief and rage.

“I slept behind the library the first night,” she said. “Then wherever I could, I would crash with friends. Eventually, I found a motel that cared more about cash than questions. I had the library job, but it wasn’t enough for rent, food, and college preparation.”

Lennox reached out slowly, giving her time to refuse, and placed his hand palm-up between them. Not touching her, only offering her his support. Lane looked at his hand for a long moment. Then she put hers in it. His fingers closed around hers carefully, like she was something precious and armed.

“I got fake documents,” she said. “Fake ID. A name that wasn’t quite mine. A birthdate old enough to make adults look away. I danced at night. Went to school during the day. Worked at the library when I could.”

Lennox’s thumb moved once over her knuckles.

She stared at their joined hands.

“I called it being a midnight ballerina because I needed it to sound like something other than what it was. I needed language that didn’t make me hate myself.” Her lips pressed together. “I graduated and got into every school I applied to. NCAT gave me a full ride.”

His voice came rough. “Of course they did.”

A laugh broke out of her, small and wet around the edges. “You say that like it was obvious.”

“It is.”

“To you.”

“To anyone with sense.”

She looked at him then. Lennox’s face was tight with anger, but his eyes were soft on her. That combination should have been impossible. It should have scared her. Instead, it made the ache in her chest loosen just enough for breath to get through.

“Jeanette never looked for me,” Lane said.

That was the sentence that hurt the most, even after all those years. Even with all the healing she had done and all the life she had built, that truth still lived inside her as a bruise pressed too long.

“She didn’t call the school or file a missing persons report. That lady didn’t even bother to ask around about he child.” Lane swallowed. “For a while, I kept waiting. I hated myself for it, but I waited. I thought eventually, even if she was mad, even if she didn’t love me right, she’d at least want to know if I was alive. She didn’t, so I stopped waiting to be missed.”

The silence between them didn’t feel empty this time. Lennox lowered his head, pressing his lips to her knuckles. Lane’s breath caught at the tenderness he’d given her as she lay there vulnerable. That’s what undid her, him kissing her hand like he was honoring something. Like the girl with the duffle bag and the trash bag deserved tenderness too.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Lane looked away fast. “You didn’t do it.”

“No. But I’m sorry it happened. I’m sorry nobody came. I’m sorry you had to become your own rescue.”

Her eyes burned, and she hated that. She loathed that he knew exactly where to press without meaning to. She hated that the words made her want to fold into him. She hated that being seen by Lennox Jackson felt less like exposure and more like finally setting down a bag she had carried too long. She pulled her hand from his and wiped beneath one eye before a tear could embarrass her by reaching freedom. He lay back down beside her, still leaving space, still letting her decide what happened next. Lane stared at him.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re not going to try anything?”