The clock above the impound window said 11:47, and Lainey had already counted the cars in the yard twice.
Twenty-three of them sat out there in the dark, and every one was a reason to keep her head down until morning.
Then headlights swung across the gravel, and her stomach dropped before she even saw the truck.
She knew that engine. She knew the way it coughed twice before it died.
Vernon: Open the window, Lainey.
His voice came muffled through the glass, and her hand stayed flat on the counter like it had grown there.
She opened it two inches, because the rules said she had to, and because the rules were all she had left.
Lainey: We're closed for releases. Come back at eight.
Vernon: I'm not waiting till eight. My cousin's car got towed off Ridge Road tonight.
He shoved a paper through the gap. A tow release, already filled in at the top, with the signature line left blank and waiting for her.
She read it twice. The lot number didn't match the car, and the fee had been scratched out and written over in Vernon's sloppy hand.
Lainey: This isn't right. There's no car at that number.
Vernon: Then fix the number. You're the one with the book.
He smiled like they were still something, like she owed him a favor for every night he hadn't put his hands on her.
She thought, fuck him, and the thought made her voice steadier than she felt.
Lainey: No. I'm not signing a lie for you.
Vernon: You'll sign it, you stupid bitch. You always did what I told you.
His hand came through the gap and closed around her wrist, and the old scar on her forearm went cold under his fingers.
Her whole body went still in the old way, the way that kept her quiet and breathing and small.
Shame crawled up her neck. She hated that he could still do that to her with five fingers and no effort at all.
Axton: Let go.
The voice came from behind Vernon, low and flat, and it did not sound like a request.
Vernon let go so fast her wrist swung back and cracked against the counter edge.
The man in the black coat stepped into the light, and his gray-blue eyes went straight to her wrist.
He was close enough that she caught cold air and clean wool on him, and something warmer underneath that made her pulse jump.
She didn't want that. She wanted to be left alone with her bruise and her pride.
Axton: You don't put hands on a woman in my town.
Vernon: She's mine. This is family business.
Axton: She told you no. That's the whole conversation.
Axton's hand stayed at his side, but his knuckles had gone white, and the air around him felt like the second before a storm.
Lainey rubbed her wrist and tried to look like it didn't hurt. It hurt.
Axton: Sign nothing you don't believe. That's the rule here, right?
He said it to her, not to Vernon. Like her answer mattered, like she was the one in charge of the yard.
Lainey: Yes. That's the rule.
Her voice shook, but it held, and something tight in her chest let go by one small notch.
Vernon walked back to his truck with his shoulders hunched, and Axton watched until the engine turned over.
Then he looked at Lainey again, and the heat of him was still there, humming between them like a struck wire.
Axton: Lock the window after me.
He said it like he already knew she would, and she stood there with her wrist throbbing and her pulse going too fast.
When the taillights disappeared, she locked the window and pressed her back to the cold wall.
He hadn't called her weak. He hadn't called her anything at all, and she didn't know yet if that was shelter or something worse.