In health class, Lane learned about depression and anxiety and all it took was a quick search on the computer for her to know she probably had both. She tried to talk to her school counselor, but the overworked woman handed Lane a couple brochures on the topic and gave her the number to a suicide hotline. What Lane needed was someone to listen. To hear her out and explain that she wasn’t the same as those people on the news who went on killing sprees. She wasn’t a killer . . . and yet it was because of her that Mathias was dead.

Lane dropped onto the sofa at the Way Station Café, thankful she’d thought to close it. After hearing what people were saying about Miguel—and now what they had heard about her—she didn’t need the spectacle inside her home. It was bad enough to imagine what that reporter or Ms. Carson were going to say. This would affect her father’s election. Mr. Adams made sure Lane was aware of that, but what about her father? He hadn’t even mentioned the election after her little emotional blowup. Give it time, she thought.

A noise startled Lane. Had she forgotten to lock the door? “I’m sorry, we’re closed—”

Ms. Byrdie stood there jingling her set of keys in the air. She set them on the counter and came to the couch. “Huggy called me.”

Ms. Byrdie’s concern was enough to cause the tears Lane had been shoving down inside to burst forth like a geyser. Ms. Byrdie dropped next to Lane, wrapped her arms around her, and allowed her to cry.

Lane didn’t know how many minutes passed, but when she pulled back she noticed that tears were streaming down Ms. Byrdie’s face too.

“Are-are you okay?” Lane hiccupped.

Ms. Byrdie took Lane’s face in her hands so that she was looking directly into Lane’s eyes—into her soul. “Lane Kent, I love you. I do. I love you. There’s nothing you have done or will ever do to make me stop loving you. From the moment you stepped into my library, the good Lord pressed a love for you so deeply on my heart that I couldn’t ignore it. I love you. I love you.”

Lane felt the wall of fear she’d built within her begin to crack. Those words were so simple, people tossed them around every day, but the power they held when said the way Ms. Byrdie was saying them . . . it ripped at the seams of doubt Lane had sewn so tightly around her heart.

Unlovable. That’s what she felt like growing up with these thoughts. An unlovable mistake.

“I messed up.” Lane took in a shaky breath. “I told Charlie about Mathias. I blurted it all out right there in the middle of the courthouse for everyone to hear.” She cringed. “Including that reporter.”