Page 55 of Freedom’s Inferno

“And?” He gestured toward himself in an unhurried sweep. “Regular people go to the bank, Lana. Not everything is a board meeting.”

I set my mug down a little too sharply. “Regular people don’t have to charm loan officers into unlocking safety deposit boxes their dead husbands forgot to mention.”

His mouth twitched again, not quite a smile. “We have the key. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

The only sound was the low hum of traffic outside the window and the faint rustle of him turning a page. I caught sight of an envelope, yellowed and creased, tucked between the pages as a makeshift bookmark. The sight of it didn’t fit. The envelope looked too fragile for his rough hands, too personal to sit beside hellfire and sinners.

“What’s that?” I asked, nodding toward it.

He froze, just for a second, but I noticed. Then he closed the book, fingers resting on the envelope like he was guarding it. “Nothing. Just… something I’ve had for a while.”

The air shifted, the warmth from before thinning into something quieter. “From who?”

He hesitated. His thumb brushed over the torn edge. “My mother.”

I waited. He didn’t look at me.

“She left when I was a kid,” he said. “My father… wasn’t easy to live with.” The understatement hung between us like smoke. “She sent me that letter when I was in my twenties. I never opened it.”

My brow furrowed. The enormity of carrying around something that personal without ever having opened it wasn’t lost on me. “Why not?”

He gave a soft, incredulous laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Why would I? Nothing written in there could excuse abandoning me with a violent man. She saved herself, and she left me behind.” His tone was flat, but the muscle in his jaw flexed.

I looked into my coffee, unsure what to say. My heart ached for him. Part of me wanted to tell him that anything could be written in the letter, that it might be more than he expected, but a wall rose behind his eyes. The one I’d started to recognize, built from years of needing to be tougher than the world ever was fair. So I didn’t push.

He exhaled and stood, tucking the envelope back into the book and sliding both into his bag. Conversation over.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair.

I followed him out, the echo of his words trailing behind us like a draft… she saved herself, and she left me behind.

The sunlight outside was too bright, and the air too sharp, after the hushed privacy of the suite.

He walked ahead, broad-shouldered and sure, and I found myself watching the line of his back, the way he moved like he didn’t need anyone. But I’d seen him softer now, holding me through a nightmare, making me coffee, keeping a letter he couldn’t bear to read.

My Lexus sat a few rows down, sleek and silver, too clean for a man who belonged on a motorcycle more than behind a steering wheel. He unlocked the doors with a low click, and I slid into the passenger seat.

Charlie started the engine, his hand steady on the gearshift. “Seatbelt,” he said without looking at me.

I clicked it into place, lips twitching. “You’re very paternal this morning.”

He smirked. “Just responsible.”

“You don’t look responsible.” I gestured toward his flannel, the rolled sleeves, the scruff along his jaw that looked more deliberate than accidental. “You look like you were kicked out of a lumberjack convention for being too broody.”

He glanced at me then, the sunlight slicing across the edge of his profile. “And yet,” he said, pulling out of the lot, “I’m the one driving you to the bank.”

The city unfurled around us as we joined traffic, and my pulse steadied with the rhythm of tires against asphalt. For a few minutes, silence filled the car.

I looked out the window, the buildings slipping by in reflective streaks. “Do you ever think about what it might say if you opened it?”

He didn’t pretend not to know what I meant. His fingers flexed against the steering wheel, knuckles whitening before he answered. “No. Because if I think about it, I might actually read it, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for that.”

I nodded, turning my face toward the glass again. The city outside blurred, a mix of light and motion. I thought of my own ghosts, the words I’d written and burned, the things I’d said too late. Maybe we were both standing in the ruins of people who’d failed us, trying to make something livable from what remained.

“You know,” I said. “you weren’t entirely wrong about me.”

His eyes flicked toward me, brief, wary. “About what?”