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I thank her and step outside, squinting against the bright morning sun. Though the crisp, fresh air feels wonderful after the staleness of my cell, I can’t draw a full breath into my tight lungs.
I grip the cardboard box holding my meager belongings and walk down the steps to the sidewalk.
“Hannah!”
Relief floods me. I turn to find my mother hurrying toward the station, her face hidden by sunglasses and her hair dyed back to its natural shade of brown.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” She stops and hugs me close. “I had a terrible time finding a parking spot. How are you?”
“Good, thanks.” I shift the box to my other arm to return her hug. “And really glad to be out of there, even if I’m still confused about what happened.”
“So am I, frankly,” she says ruefully, “but I’m not going to question it. Come on, let’s get you out of here for good.”
As we walk to the parking lot, I scan the passersby and look at the drivers of the cars and trucks rumbling down the street.
But deep down, in the center of my soul, I already know.
Dane isn’t here.
I’dfeelhim if he were anywhere close to me. Instead, despite my newfound freedom, my heart is fragile, almost brittle.
The police officer who unlocked my cell earlier hadn’t given me any insight. She only said that a judge had dismissed all charges against me, and I was free to go. Benny, the bondsman, had been fully repaid, and my record was wiped clean.
As the officer processed my release, I wondered vaguely if it had all been a dream.
No. Dane Armstrong, with his unbreakable determination and strength, his powerful body and gentle heart, his love for word jumbles, and his fierce, undying devotion—he’s more blazingly real than the sun itself.
But he’s also…gone. I haven’t heard from him since the night of the raid. He wasn’t allowed to see me in jail, but he didn’t call either.
If he had something to do with my release—and I have no doubt that he did—he didn’t wait for me. He’s not here to celebrate or even tell me what happened.
I take another breath, telling myself it will be okay. Maybe he’s busy or wanted to give me time to process everything. Maybe he had to hunt down another bail jumper. Maybe he’s still debriefing what happened during the raid or has his own legal entanglements.
I wish I could believe any one of those things. But the icy ball of dread in my stomach tells me none of them are the truth.
My mother stops next to an old Ford—no more Mercedes—and unlocks the doors. After we get inside, she drives to a shoebox-sized apartment on the outskirts of the city. The place is furnished with worn, secondhand furniture, and a vague smell of cooked cabbage comes through the vents.
“It’s not much, but it’s home for now.” Selina puts her purse on the weathered kitchen table. “Kevin…I mean, Sheriff Peterson arranged a reasonable rent for the next year. You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“No, no. I’ll be fine on the sofa. It’ll be much better than the cot in the jail.” After setting my box down, I take off the lid and examine the contents—my small, crossbody bag and wallet, my sweatshirt, and a worn leather band with a silver compass medallion attached to the center.
I drop everything back in the box and put the lid back on. I walk to the window, which overlooks a dumpster-filled alley.
“I’m sorry it’s kind of a dump.” Selina fills a teakettle with water.
I cross the room and wrap my arms around her. “I love it.”
She chuckles. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”
“I’m not.” I pull back to look her in the eye. “I mean every word. This place isyours, Mom. You earned it. You didn’t have to rely on Eddie or anyone else. You did it all yourself. And tipping off the police about the stash house is one of the bravest things I’ve ever heard. I’m so proud of you.”
She laughs again, waving a hand even as her eyes glisten with tears. “Well, unless I want to make a living tipping the police off about crime—which I absolutely do not—I have to make a fresh start for myself. I’ve already applied for three jobs. Two at beauty salons and one at a hairdresser’s. I’ve always liked doing hair and makeup, so who knows? Maybe something will come of it. Come on, let’s have coffee.”
I help her prep the instant coffee, and she arranges a few packaged cookies on a plate. We sit at the table, and she tells me about how she’s budgeted the money she received from the sheriff’s office, plus a couple thousand that she managed to squire away from Eddie.
Since he’s still out there somewhere, Selina has to lie low. Unless he’s captured—and with every passing day, the chance of that grows less likely—my mother will live in fear.
“So now that you’re in the clear”—she sips her coffee and reaches for a cookie—“what are your plans?”
