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My brain lagged behind the words. The hallway fell completely silent.

I blinked. “What?”

Julia’s face flushed with shame.

“We went on a few dates first.” She gave a small wistful smile. “But he was still completely hung up on you, so I always knew it wasn’t going to last.” Her voice softened. “He was young. Sweet.” The smile deepened for the briefest second. “He made me laugh.” Then it disappeared. “Bryant met me through Lane.”

“He what?” The question came out barely louder than a whisper.

Julia closed her eyes; for a second she looked physically ill.

“Bryant began calling.”

Jonah snorted in disgust.

“Then he’d show up when Lane wasn’t around.”

Nausea curled through my stomach. The truth unfolded one horrifying layer at a time, like something rotten finally exposed to sunlight.

“He pursued you?” I asked.

Julia laughed bitterly. “‘Pursued’ makes it sound romantic.” Her eyes filled again. “I broke up with Lane because I thought it would stop.”

My heart ached for both of them. For the young version of Lane. The one who had probably blamed himself. The one who always blamed himself.

“It didn’t.” Her voice cracked. “It just got more confusing.”

Nobody moved.

“Then eventually . . .” She looked down. “I gave up because I believed he loved me.”

That wasn’t romance; it wasn't love. It was manipulation wrapped in attention. Control disguised as devotion. And suddenly, the man Lane had spent his life trying to escape came into devastating focus.

He wasn’t a difficult father or a toxic parent. He was a man who treated people like possessions, reducing women, children, anyone weaker than him to something he could claim, take, and control. The text message, the slur, the contempt, the cruelty came rushing back. For the first time, my anger wasn’t for Lane. It was mine.

Every head turned as the imaging doors opened. A transporter rolled Lane’s gurney into the hallway. Bandaged. Pale. Alive. The breath left my lungs.

Lane’s eyes fluttered open, and his gaze found me first. Then Jonah, Soren, and Julia. A weak smile curved his lips.

“Well.” His voice was hoarse. “I might have a little goose egg.”

The sound that came out of me was half laugh, half sob. My feet were moving before my mind caught up. Behind me, Julia began to cry again in relief.

Fifty-Seven

Cali

The room was quiet except for the familiar hospital sounds I’d learned to ignore. The steady beep of the monitor beside Lane’s bed. The occasional announcement over the intercom. The distant rattle of wheels rolling across polished floors. But compared to the chaos of the last few hours, it felt almost silent.

The CT was clear, so Dr. Wrosch had diagnosed him with a severe concussion because there was no evidence of a skull fracture. The laceration had been stitched. Bruises were already blooming across his skin, but there was no intracranial bleed. No surgery or life-threatening complications. Just observation and rest.

A wave of relief moved through me because those injuries would heal.

Jonah and Soren had finally gone home after extracting multiple promises from Lane that he would answer his phone. He was groggy from the pain medication, but his expression softened as he saw his friends who were closer than brothers. His shoulders finally loosened, as though he trusted them to stand watch. Soren had been on the phone with the sheriff’s department as he left, making sure Bryant was still being held and hadn’t somehow talked his way out of the charges. It seemed unlikely, especially with Julia witnessing everything firsthand, but none of us were willing to gamble on unlikely anymore. Julia had left too, tearful and relieved. Grief hollowed her expression. She was devastated that her husband had tried to kill Lane.

The entire night blurred together like a nightmare that refused to release its grip. I curled into the uncomfortable chair beside Lane’s bed, one leg tucked beneath me, a magazine resting open in my lap. A nurse had dimmed the overhead lights. I’d called Helen and checked on Jace, filling them both in. Lane had texted another coach at the high school to let him know he would be unavailable for football practice for at least the next week.

Lane was awake now, quiet and exhausted as he sorted through everything that had happened. Every few minutes, my gaze drifted from the magazine back to him. The bandage wrapped around his head. The steady rise and fall of his chest.