Page 92 of Lennox Lane

Jalen: Copy.

The address led him to the far edge of Stonebridge, past the restored blocks and coffee shops developers liked to call “up-and-coming” after pushing out everyone who’d kept the lights on before them. Jeanette’s building sat behind a liquor store and a closed laundromat, a tired six-story high-rise with peeling paint, rusted railings, and a stairwell that smelled like old beer and damp carpet.

Lennox parked half a block away. Jalen’s black SUV slid in behind him two minutes later. Jalen got out war-ready. He was built like a linebacker and moved like a man who understood silence as a weapon.

He looked Lennox over once. “You good?”

“No.”

Jalen nodded. “Didn’t think so.”

Lennox checked the time; Lane wasn’t due until three. He had twenty-two minutes to get in and neutralize all threats. He headed up the stairs as Jalen followed without a word. They reached apartment 2B as Lennox rapped once, then again harder.

Something crashed inside as a muffled curse was heard. Heavy footsteps shuffled toward the door, and when it opened, a dark-skinned, potbellied man stood there in boxers and nothing else, scratching the side of his stomach with yellowed nails. His eyes were red, his beard patchy, and a sour smell rolled out from behind him.

He looked Lennox up and down. “Who the hell are you?”

Lennox pulled his weapon and pressed the barrel to his head, out of view from the hallway but close enough for the man to understand how quickly his afternoon had changed. Jalen stepped to the side, blocking the stairwell view with his body.

Lennox’s voice stayed calm. “Take your nasty ass to the back, get dressed, and bring Jeanette with you.”

The man’s mouth opened as if to speak, but Lennox stepped closer. “That wasn’t a discussion.”

Recognition flickered in the man’s eyes, not of Lennox specifically, but of the fact that he’d finally met somebody whose threats didn’t need volume to be real. He backed up, and Lennox entered behind him as Jalen shut the door.

The apartment was worse than the hallway. Thin curtains and stained carpet. A glass pipe on the coffee table and empty bottles near a recliner. A television mounted crooked against the wall, playing a court show with the volume low. There were old takeout containers on the counter and laundry piled in the corners like musty molehills.

Lennox’s jaw tightened. This was where Jeanette had tried to summon Lane. This was where she wanted Lane to walk in alone. His fingers flexed around the grip of his gun. The man disappeared down the hall, muttering under his breath.

Jalen moved through the small living room with practiced calm, eyes taking inventory. He’d gotten familiar with the exits, windows, and any objects that could become weapons.

The bedroom door opened a few minutes later. The man came out first, now wearing sweatpants and a dingy undershirt, and behind him came Jeanette Sanders. Lennox had seen pictures of her, including old mugshots and even her state I.D., and none of it prepared him for the woman in front of him. Jeanette looked older than she should’ve. She was thin in the face with tired eyes and her thin hair pulled into a scarf that had slipped crookedly near one temple. Her hands shook as she gripped the front of an oversized cardigan. She looked at Lennox, then Jalen, then the weapon Lennox had lowered but not put away.

“Where’s Lane?” she asked.

“Don’t ask me shit about Lane,” he snapped.

Jeanette flinched. The man beside her sneered, but he didn’t step forward, and that was the smartest thing he’d done all day.

Lennox looked at him. “Sit down.”

“I ain’t⁠—”

Jalen moved one step, and the man sat. Jeanette stayed standing, eyes darting toward the door.

“You’ve been texting her,” Lennox said.

Jeanette’s face crumpled instantly. “I didn’t want to.”

Lennox stared at her, expecting venom and manipulation masked as tears, but he didn’t get that. He’d expected the woman who’d abandoned Lane to still be cruel enough to make him understand, in full color, why Lane’s laughter had masked so much pain, but she didn’t present that. She seemed scared and tired of whatever her life had become; he hadn’t expected that.

The door opened behind them, and Lane stepped in. When Lennox looked at her, everything in him stopped. She stood in the doorway wearing black jeans, a black tank, an oversized denim jacket, sneakers, and gold hoops. Her lavender pixie was styled to perfection, and her face was calm in a way that made his chest hurt because he knew calm like that. Calm like that cost something. Calm like that was a wall built from pain and painted to look like control.

Her eyes moved from Jeanette to the man on the couch, then to Lennox. There it was, surprise followed by anger. Then something that looked too much like relief for him to stay mad in a straight line. He was still mad; shit, he was bordering on furious.

Lane shut the door slowly as she asked, “What are you doing here?”

Lennox walked toward her, stopping close but not touching. His voice came out low and gentle because he didn’t trust anything louder.