CHAPTER 18
ZANE
PAST
The abandoned tunnel was my refuge —one of those places no one cared to keep standing anymore, but that made perfect sense to me. When things at home got unbearable, I came here. The silence, the smell of rust and damp concrete, the way the streetlights barely reached the entrance… it was the perfect place to think. No one bothered me here.
Until that night.
I wasn’t alone.
She was curled up against the wall, hidden in the shadows. For a second, I thought she wasn’t real—just a trick of my tired mind. But then her eyes caught the faint glow from the tunnel entrance. Wide. Frightened.
I stopped in my tracks.
“You okay?” My voice was quiet, careful. No threat.
She didn’t answer. Just kept staring, as if waiting for me to lunge at her.
She asked if I was real, but now I wonder if I just imagined her voice—because she’s staring at me, refusing to say another word.
Slowly, I raised my hands, showing I wasn’t here to hurt her. “I’m sorry, I… do you need help?”
She stayed silent, but something in my tone must have made a difference. Her shoulders loosened just a little. Still, she shook her head.
I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. I knew that feeling—the tightness in your chest, the desperate need to be invisible. So I didn’t press.
Instead, I reached into my pocket, pulling out the sandwich Taylor had packed for me earlier. Chicken. She knew I liked it better than tuna. My sister liked to act like she didn’t care about much, but she noticed the little things.
I held it out.
She snatched it without hesitation, eating so fast it was like she expected someone to rip it from her hands. Her fingers—thin, dirty—clutched the bread tight as she chewed too quickly to even taste it.
I didn’t look away, but I made sure not to stare. Didn’t want her feeling even more cornered.
She made no sound except for the ragged breaths between bites, the muffled noises of food being swallowed. No murmur of thanks. No sigh of relief. Just silence.
I waited.
Waited until she slowed down, until her shoulders lost some of that rigid tension. Then, I reached into my backpack, pulled out a water bottle, and set it beside her.
She froze mid-chew, her eyes flicking toward the bottle like it might be a trick.
I raised my hands again, staying still.
After a long second, she reached out, twisting the cap with difficulty. Her nails were cracked, her wrists too thin. She lifted the bottle to her lips and drank like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.
And this time, I saw it—a flicker of relief.
The dim light from outside stretched just far enough for me to take in her features better. She looked younger than I’d first thought. But her eyes… her eyes were old.
Worn. Tired.
“How long have you been here?” I asked, voice low, unhurried.
She didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at me this time.
I didn’t push. Just leaned back against the tunnel wall, tilting my head against the cold stone with a quiet sigh.
The night was cold, thick with the scent of wet concrete and dry earth. Somewhere deeper in the tunnel, water dripped from a broken pipe, the sound echoing in the empty space.
She drank again, slower this time. Then she screwed the cap shut and clutched the bottle to her chest, like she was afraid I’d take it.
I didn’t move.
The silence stretched between us.
But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t mind.
She kept her head down, fingers still tight around the bottle, but now that the light touched her face, I could see them better—her eyes. A pale, almost translucent green, the kind that shifted shades depending on the light. They stood out stark against her skin. Not in a striking way, but in a way that didn’t seem natural. Too pale, like she hadn’t seen sunlight in too long.
And her hair… it was strange. Not bad, just unusual. Half white, half black, like a transformation left unfinished. I didn’t know if it was natural or something else.
I didn’t ask.
Then I noticed the bruises.
Small, scattered across her face and neck. Some darker, some reddish.
Not just dirt.
Some were old wounds. Poorly healed cuts.
And there was something else.
And for the first time, I wanted to know who she was.
The sleeve of her sweatshirt—dirty and too big for her frame—was pulled up just enough for me to see the bruise on her wrist. Not the kind you get from bumping into something. It was bigger, deeper.
My fists clenched before I even realized it.
“Did someone hurt you?” My voice came out firmer than I intended.
She looked up at me, and for a second, I thought she was going to answer. But then her gaze dropped again, fingers gripping the fabric of her sweatshirt tightly.
Silence.
I should let it go. It wasn’t my business. But something inside me refused to ignore it.
“If someone hurt you, I can help.”
She let out a short, dry laugh. A humorless sound.
I didn’t know if she was laughing at my offer or just at the idea that anyone could actually help her.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Just… tell me if you have somewhere to go back to.”
Nothing.
She stared at the ground, like if she waited long enough, I’d disappear.
And maybe I should have.
But I didn’t.
I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “Do you want me to leave?”
For the first time, hesitation flickered across her face.
Then, slowly, she shook her head.
No.
I let out a quiet breath and leaned back against the wall, closing my eyes for a moment.
I didn’t know what I was doing. But at least, for now, I was here.
I came back the next day.
And the day after that.
And the next one too.
I brought food—sandwiches, granola bars, anything I could grab without Taylor or my mom noticing. At first, she just took it and ate without a word. But little by little, things changed.
She started looking me in the eye when she reached for the food. Then came the small gestures—a nod, a quick glance.
I didn’t talk much at first, just small things. About the weather, how school was a waste of time, how Taylor pretended not to care but still made me lunch every day. Sometimes I talked about Kyle. About how much I missed him. About Abby.
I expected her to roll her eyes, to tell me I talked too much. But she just listened.
And after a while, I liked having someone to talk to about the little, unimportant things.
I couldn’t do that with my mom. Couldn’t even get close to her.
She never talked back, but I knew she was listening.
Until today.
I never thought my mom’s latest idiot boyfriend would be the reason she finally spoke.
My mom had a talent for picking losers who’d pay for her drugs while Kyle broke his back to keep the lights on. Sometimes those losers liked to take out their frustrations on whoever was closest. Usually, that meant me.
I preferred it that way. Better me than Taylor.
Today had been one of those days. I told the guy I wasn’t going to do his damn dishes, and that set him off. Kyle would’ve had my back, but Kyle wasn’t home. Someone had to work and put food on the table. And he couldn’t do that from jail. Because that’s exactly where he’d end up if he saw the bruises.
Maybe jail was a stretch. Cory Ross would probably find a way to get him out of it. But still. Better to avoid the headache. So I hid the marks whenever Kyle was around.
She was eating when I felt it—her gaze, heavy on me.
When I turned, her eyes were locked onto my arm.
I followed her line of sight and held my breath.
Shit.
The bruises were showing again. I usually remembered to keep my sleeves down, but I’d moved too fast. Too quickly, I yanked the fabric back over them.
“Who did that to you?”
Her voice was rough, like she hadn’t used it in a long time.
I froze.
She spoke.
She was talking.
Before I could react, she repeated herself, louder this time.
“Who did this?”
I swallowed hard. I didn’t know why I suddenly felt embarrassed.
“My mom’s boyfriend has a habit of… getting irritated easily.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“And your mom?”
I shrugged. “Pretends she doesn’t see.”
She was quiet for a moment, studying me. Then she said something I never forgot.
“You can either live on the run or face the people who try to break you.”
It hit me harder than I expected.
Running was all I’d ever known.
But for the first time, someone was telling me I had another choice.
And she said it like she knew exactly what she was talking about.
Like she had learned it the hard way.