Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
RONAN
The bandages on my hands make working on the house impossible. I try anyway, hauling boxes down to the basement. After the third box slips from my grip, I give up. I can’t focus anyway. My mind keeps replaying this morning on an endless loop, each replay more vivid than the last.
I brace my hands on the kitchen counter, staring at nothing.
The bandages are already stained with dirt from the boxes and dried blood that seeped through.
My fingers throb. But it’s nothing compared to the tight knot in my stomach, and the way my throat closes up every time I think about her face, the blood, and how I lost control.
A car engine cuts through my thoughts, followed by a door slamming. My body goes still, every muscle tensing. Footsteps approach the porch, and the sound echoes through me like a countdown. I know this sound. I’ve heard it before.
When the knock comes, it’s sharp and official sounding.
Movement catches my eye through the window as I walk toward the front door. Tom steps out of his house, and stops on his porch. His words from earlier rattle around my head.
Whatever comes next, we’ll deal with it.
Did he mean that?
My mouth is dry when I open the door, tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.
Two police officers stand there, expressions giving nothing away as they identify themselves.
My body already knows what comes next. Cuffs, rights being read, the ride downtown.
I’ve done this before. My shoulders square automatically, my stance widening slightly.
Arms moving so my wrists are behind my back. Prison reflexes that never go away.
“Mr. Oliver. We’re here about the incident outside Wilson’s Hardware this morning. Mind if we come in?”
I step back, letting them walk past me into the hallway. Tom appears behind them before the door closes, and follows them in. I lead them through the house and into the kitchen. One takes out a notebook and flips it open. I keep my distance, body angled toward the nearest exit.
“We’ve spoken to most of the people who were there,” the older officer says. “But we’d like to hear your version of events.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, considering what to say. I have to be careful, one wrong word could send me back inside.
“There’s not much to tell. Dan Hartman was running his mouth off, then threw a punch.”
“At you?”
“That was the intention. Lily got in the way.”
The officer nods slowly, making notes. “Multiple witnesses confirmed that. They were quite clear that you were defending Ms. Gladwin.”
My eyes narrow. That can’t be right. People don’t take my side. They never have.
“What?”
“We have statements from six different people.” He glances at his notes. “All confirming that Hartman initiated the confrontation and threw the first punch, and that you were defending both yourself and Ms. Gladwin from his attack.”
I stare at him, still waiting for the cuffs to come out. But he just watches me, expression neutral.
“Your response,” the other officer says, “while a little excessive, was reportedly in defense of Ms. Gladwin after she was struck, and from what others say the leadup to it was purposely done to incite a physical reaction from you.”
His partner shifts his weight. “Witnesses said you’d been trying to walk away before it became physical.”
His words don’t make sense. People saw what happened and told the truth? They didn’t twist it to fit what they expected to see?
“We’ll need a formal statement.” The lead officer pulls out more papers. “And there may be further questions, depending on whether charges are filed.”
“Charges.” The word comes out filled with all the fear I’m trying to hide.
This is it. This is where they tell me I’m going back inside. Where they explain that because of my record, there’s zero tolerance for violence. One fight is enough. My mind is already calculating. Three years, minimum. Maybe five.
“Against Hartman.” His eyebrows lift slightly. “By Ms. Gladwin. For assault.”
Wait … what? They’re not talking about me? They’re talking about charging Dan.
“What about you? Did you want to press charges as well?”
For a moment, I can’t speak. I can’t think past the static in my head. They’re offering me the option of pressing charges? Me? The ex-con who’s supposed to be the dangerous one? The one everyone expects to be the threat?
“No.”
He nods, unsurprised. “We’ll still need your official statement about what happened.”
I tell them what they need to know, keeping it factual and simple.
Dan started it. Lily got hit. I responded.
When I finish talking, Tom clears his throat, and steps forward. “I can also verify he came straight here afterward. He spent an hour at my place, then came home. He’s been here since.”
The officer makes notes, then closes his book. “That should do it. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”
I walk them to the door, still waiting for them to change their minds, but they just give me a final nod and walk back to their car.
Tom stays on the porch, watching as they pull away. When the taillights disappear, he turns to look at me.
“Told you that you wouldn’t be dealing with it alone.”
I don’t know what to say to that. To any of it. People spoke up for me. Tom stood in my kitchen and confirmed my movements like it was normal.
My hands are shaking now that the threat has passed, adrenaline draining away. I shove them into my pockets in an attempt to hide it.
And that’s when it hits me.
I want to stay here.
The realization rocks me back on my heels.
When did that happen? When did this stop being just another temporary place to exist? When did I start wanting more than just survival?
But I do. I want to build a life here. I want to finish the work Edwards started. I want to prove that I am more than what they remember me to be.
“You look like you need coffee.” Tom is already moving back toward the kitchen. “And maybe some real food. I bet you didn’t have breakfast.”
I watch as he moves around the kitchen, an unfamiliar emotion expanding in my chest. It’s uncomfortable, awkward, but real. I feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that makes me want to retreat.
I don’t know how to do this. How to accept help and believe that maybe, just maybe, I’m not as alone as I thought. Everything inside me wants to run, push him away and hide where no one can see how much this has shaken me.
Tom starts the coffee maker as though this is a routine we’ve been following for years … and I let him. Because I don’t have to figure it all out right now. Maybe I just have to learn how to let someone stand beside me while I try.
A voice inside my head whispers that it can’t last. Nothing good ever does. Somehow I’ll ruin it, or the universe will find a way to take back something I’ve dared to allow myself to want.
For now, I silence it, and take a seat at the table, accepting the coffee Tom places in front of me—hot, black, exactly how I like it—and accept his company.