Page 109 of Midnight Between Us
I laugh, a real one this time.“No.What you should do is get to know him.No pressure, no expectations.Just ...see who he is now.He’s a good man who grew up in a terrible situation.”
“How terrible?”
“That’s his story to tell,”I say gently.“But maybe something to talk about once you’ve had a few conversations.Give it time.”
“Got it.”
“You’re nervous, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s going to be okay.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.“Can I call you after it’s over?”
“Of course.You know I’m always here for you—not just on Sundays.”
“I know.”There’s a pause, then, “Love you, Sim.”
I press my fingers to my heart.“Love you too, Lyn.”
ChapterFifty-Five
Keir
It’sstrange how in the past twenty-four hours my life has shrunk down to layovers and aliases.One plane after another, hopping across state lines and maybe even countries like I’m chasing a ghost.Technically, I am—just not someone else’s.Mine.
Finally, we touch down at an undisclosed location that Atlas swears is for my protection—and Lyndon’s.No one outside a tight circle knows I’m alive.According to law enforcement, I’m still missing.The New York Police Department isn’t looking for me, but the file is open.
The Syndicate is probably laughing because no one knows I was beaten to a pulp and left to die inside a trunk.
Oh, and then there’s how the man pulled from the wreckage on Route Seven who didn’t survive during the ride from the highway to Boston.That’s the official story.
Why?I have no idea.Something about leverage, plausible deniability, or whatever twisted logic makes criminal empires run.All I know is, staying invisible buys them time.
It gives CQS the space to continue investigating the company that attempted to acquire Old Birchwood Timber.It gives me the one thing I’ve been too scared to ask for until now.
This moment.
I’m about to meet Lyndon Decker, my son.
I’ve rehearsed this moment a thousand different ways—talking to the mirror like a lunatic, writing letters I never mailed, building whole scenes in my head where I say the perfect thing, and he forgives me instantly.
None of it helped.
My palms are damp.I’ve worn a hole in the carpet pacing.The room is trying to be cozy—soft lighting, two couches that don’t match but try their best, and a side table with bottled water and tissues.It looks like a therapist’s office, if someone were to give it a small budget and vague instructions, such as ‘comfort,’ but not too family-oriented.
Still, everything about it feels foreign.Like I’m playing guest star in someone else’s life.
Then, the door opens without fanfare.
And there he is.
Lyndon steps in like this is just another appointment.Calm.Collected.Unreadable in that way, teenagers and spies manage to perfect.He’s wearing a gray hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, jeans that have seen better days, and a look that says he’s already figured out five different ways this could go wrong.
He doesn’t flinch.Doesn’t hesitate.And somehow, that makes my lungs forget what to do.
“Hi,” I say because my brain short-circuits and apparently, that’s all I’ve got.
