Epilogue
ONE YEAR LATER
NICOLA
I’m on my way out the door when it comes. The postman asks me to sign, and then casually nods and walks off like he hasn’t handed me my future in an envelope. I push it into my handbag with shaky hands and place Avery into her pram.
The familiar, salty breeze from the Celtic Sea is bitter as I pull a blanket up around Avery and make my way toward the pier.
Since returning to Cornwall, I never take one solitary thing for granted, not the cold drizzle or the perpetually gloomy sky.
I even smile at the vendors, the pushy fortune-teller who hollers for us to come inside, the elderly man at the pasty shop, bent over a small chalkboard, writing out the daily specials in block letters, and the smiling, portly woman at the bakery kiosk where I stop for tea and two blueberry scones.
I hand one to Avery, and we sit on a weathered bench facing the sea. I breathe it in and savor it.
I pull out the contents of the envelope, and my hand flutters to my chest when I see it.
I think of Cora and Paige. None of us stayed in Brighton Hills.
Last month Cora sent me a photo of herself in front of a Sold sign on a beach bungalow in Fort Lauderdale after dropping Mia off at the FSU dorms, and Paige said she and Grant should have left that house a long time ago.
I understand the need to get as far away as possible.
Paige and Grant will visit us here over the Christmas holiday and then maybe Maine, Paige told her.
They could move there or Cape Cod; they haven’t decided yet.
I never expected this. There was no trial because the DA didn’t prosecute: the evidence of self-defense, along with eyewitnesses supporting that claim, didn’t merit one. The history of abuse was documented and undeniable. So that was it. I was just so happy it was over. That was enough.
But the money. I didn’t ask for it, but here it is in my hands.
The statute that prohibits a spouse from collecting on life insurance covers unlawful and intentional killing, but when it’s self-defense and the state doesn’t prosecute, it does not apply, as it turns out.
Plus, there was the estate. There is a part of me that doesn’t want it because of what having it means, but there’s the other part of me that thinks it’s a sort of poetic justice.
I look at the number on the check, and it just doesn’t seem real.
I examine the back, the watermark, then the amount again.
I close my eyes and clutch it to my chest.
I’m free.