Jack blinked. “What floorboard?”
She grinned, and for a moment, she looked almost young. “Wouldn’t be much of a hiding spot if I told everyone, would it?” She nodded toward his money on the milk crate. “Yours is safe there for now. But if you’re staying, we should find a better place. Whitechapel has a way of redistributing wealth when you’re not looking.”
Staying. The word landed in his chest.
“Figured you’d want to see it was all there.” She studied him with knowing eyes. “Thought—after all you’ve been through—you’d need proof that a good person can touch your things without taking.”
Jack swallowed against the thickness in his throat and nodded his appreciation. No one had ever touched anything of his without taking. Not even his mother. Everything was a trade.
“What do you plan to do with it?” she asked, eyes closed once more. “That’s more money than most people see in a lifetime.”
“I don’t know.” The admission came out raw. “I’ve never had anything. Not really. And who’s to say it’s mine?”
“Possession is nine tenths of the law, Jack.” She was quiet for a long moment. “But time is a luxury in itself, so you take your time deciding what to do next. I’m not rushing you out.” She rose from the tub, water streaming down her body as if freshly baptized. She wrapped herself in a threadbare towel and then turned to face him. “Having something of your own takes getting used to, especially when you grew up having nothin’ at all.”
In the weeks that followed, Jack continued to rest but gradually needed less. Myrtle sometimes rested on the edge of the small bed. Jack didn’t object because it was the only bed, and it wasn’t fair for her to sleep on the chair when she had to leave for work every night.
She slept during the day. Sometimes Jack slept too. Other times, he watched the people outside or simply watched Myrtle. He spent hours staring at her, wondering what her life outside of this flat looked like.
At night, she disappeared, but there were a few hours before dark, when the sky turned gold and stew warmed on the stove, when they would both be awake and talk. Myrtle had stories about all the neighborhood, the other girls she worked with, and the strange requests her wealthy clients sometimes made.
She never asked about Jack’s past, and he never felt pressured to offer. He came to expect certain things from her, gentleness and patience being among the highest values in his eyes.
Then one night, she reached out a hand and brushed the hair from his forehead.
Jack went rigid.
She withdrew her touch immediately and looked away, as if ashamed of such an action. “Sorry, love. Should have asked.”
Jack stared unblinking at the way she used one hand to grip the other, as if imprisoning her fingers after a crime. He didn’t trust his voice to speak. Nor did he understand how some part of him wanted her to touch him. That was the terrifying part. He wanted it so badly his chest ached.
Several days later, Myrtle touched a gentle hand on his shoulder, offering the softest squeeze as she smiled over something he’d said. When she pulled away, he looked at her, but couldn’t find the words to say what he wanted to say.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I did it again.”
The ache returned to his chest, unbearably tight around his heart. Slowly, he reached for her hand and lifted it. Myrtle watched him study her chipped, red nails and said nothing when he lowered his head to her palm.
He let her hand go, and she stayed like that for a long moment, unsure what he was asking of her. Then, her fingernails combed softly through his hair, and he closed his eyes.
It was the softest touch he’d ever felt, and his breath caught at the excruciating pleasure of it.
“My mother used to rub my head like this,” she said gently, sweeping his hair slowly to one side. “I would lay my head on her lap, and she’d stroke my forehead just like this while she read to me.”
Jack looked into her eyes, creased with the subtle smile she reserved for him. He scooted closer and lowered his head to her lap, blinking at the wall ahead.
Her hand lowered, fingers returning to his hair as she continued to stroke. “I don’t remember many children’s stories, but you’re not much of a little boy, are you?”
He swallowed, unsure how to answer. Sometimes, he felt like the smallest boy alive, living in a world of shadows cast by the largest, cruelest giants.
She let him rest on her lap like that until she had to leave for work. The day after, she invited him to do the same.
She never pulled him closer than he was willing to go. Never let her hands wander where they shouldn’t. She simply held him, the way she said her mother used to hold her. The way his mother never did—at least not to his memory.
“You’ve been through something terrible,” she said one night, softly stroking his hair.
It wasn’t a question, but Jack nodded against her lap anyway.
“You don’t have to tell me what. But I want you to know somethin’.” She turned her fingers, running the backs of her knuckles softly down his cheek. “Whatever they did to you, it wasn’t your fault. And whatever you did to get away, you were right to do it.”
