Page 95 of Midnight Between Us
I reach for the next envelope, but my hand stalls over the box.
She told me to read them.Told me to finish.But I’m starting to think this isn’t about understanding the past.It’s about owning it.
ChapterForty-Four
Keir
Simone didn’t signit as if she were bleeding out.She signed it like someone who’d survived it.And somehow, that fucking wrecks me even more.
I stay in the chair too long.Long enough for the stillness to start feeling personal.The air’s gone stale, heavy with everything I don’t know how to face.My neck protests from staring too long at the ceiling, like maybe it’ll crack open and spell out what the hell I’m supposed to do next.But the fan just hums its useless rhythm.No answers.No sign.Just quiet—thin, fraying, tugging loose everything I tried to bury.
The library door clicks open.For a second, my chest tightens in stupid hope.That maybe it’s her.Perhaps we’re not done.Perhaps I don’t have to keep reading letters that feel like walking barefoot through broken glass—each word soaked in the agony of letting go of Lyndon while the state churned her grief into bureaucracy.
But it’s not Simone.
It’s Atlas.
He steps in but doesn’t speak right away.He doesn’t sit, simply wanders to the bookshelf, and brushes a finger along the spines like he’s trying to find just the perfect book for this right moment, yet, knowing full well he’s not going to find it.
Then he turns and leans back against the shelves, arms crossed.
“So, I heard learned abouthim,” he starts.“Lyndon.”
I nod because I can’t figure out what to say right now.I’m still processing everything.
“You okay?”
“No.I’m all fucked up.”
“Good.”
That makes me glance up.“That’s good?”
He smirks.“It means you’re not pretending.First step in not being a complete idiot—again.”
I huff out something between a breath and a broken laugh.“Bit late for that, don’t you think?”I should leave it there, but curiosity has teeth.“Who told you about him?”
“When I tried running a background check on Simone, it came up,” he says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.Like doing a deep dive into someone’s past is just another day’s task.I should be mad.I should say something.But I don’t have the energy to be anything but a man with too many problems and zero answers.
“It’s funny, you know,” he adds.
“What is?”
“The Deckers collect strays.I was one of them.I’ve known Lyn—have for a while.”He clears his throat.“No, I’m not calling him a stray.I was the stray.The point is that I never connected the dots.But now that I know ...”He tilts his head.“He’s got Timberbridge written all over him.”
“You know him?”
Atlas nods.“He’s a good kid.Good family.Of all the people who could’ve adopted him, he landed somewhere great.Safe.”
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until something inside me eases.Not relief exactly—just a brief pause in the constant ache.It’s not loud.It’s the quiet sort of pain that lives in your bones and lingers under everything, never asking for attention but never letting go, either.
“She was sixteen.”My voice scrapes out, cracked and dry, like I haven’t spoken in hours.“She gave birth alone.She held him.Counted his toes.Kissed his fingers.And I wasn’t there.”
Atlas doesn’t flinch.Doesn’t rush to fill the space.Just watches me with that unnerving steadiness of his.Like he’s seen this version of heartbreak before.Like he knows it by name.
“She told Lyndon about me,” I say, softer now.“She didn’t have to.But she did.”
Atlas still doesn’t say a word, just listens.
