Page 40 of The Clinch
The old name lands with impact.
“You absolutely destroyed the hundred that year,” he goes on, animated now. “That celebration? You were unreal,” he says, almost laughing now. “Nobody could touch you.”
He flicks his hand through the air—the exact angle, the exact snap. The way I used to order the world to look at me at the finish line.
For one brutal second, the room tilts.
The old hit of being seen and knowing exactly how to stand under it. Training answers before thought does. Shoulders back. Weight balanced. Face neutral.
I spent years burying Lillian Richardson. Apparently she still knows how to make an entrance. Standing next to me, Leo feels different suddenly—less handler, more man discovering there are versions of me he hasn’t even begun to account for.
“That was a long time ago,” I say, calm enough to surprise myself.
Leo’s hand firms once at my back, not enough to read as possession to anyone else, just enough that I feel the shift.
His whole body seems to narrow. Not bigger. Tighter.
“And not a conversation she’s having tonight,” he says. Still calm. Too calm. The kind of voice that means he’s closer to losing patience than he wants anyone to know.
The man blinks. Glances between us.
“Right.” He recovers fast. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to ambush you.”
“No problem,” I say before Leo has to. Light. Final.
The man takes the exit I give him and doesn’t look back.
Panic doesn’t get all the way in. The old instinct beats it back: hold your face, hold your posture, don’t give the room more than it earned.
Four years.
Four years of burying that name, and one stupid conversation is enough to make it ring in my bones again.
I lock my expression down again.
“Let’s get some air,” Leo says, guiding me toward the elevators before anyone else can circle back, before the moment can grow legs.
I let him.
For now.
The rooftop air is soft,edged with the last sweep of sunset. Conversations rise and fall around us—glass clinks, laughter. None of it quite reaches me yet.
Leo doesn’t ask where I want to go. He guides me to a quiet corner near the railing, away from the main flow of bodies, giving me room and letting the city do some of the work.
“Let’s stop here.”
Only then does he step in beside me, shoulder near mine, broad enough to block the room without cornering me.
It’s effective.
I don’t love how quickly my body registers that.
Lillian Richardson.
The name echoes again. Not like a threat, but like an old photograph shoved into my hands without warning.
“Liz.” Leo’s voice is low, steady. “Look at me.”
