Chapter 3
Nora
AFTER I SHOWER and change, Jack makes me tea as I sit at his kitchen table, still so familiar to me after all of these years. He’s a creature of habit, meaning not much has changed in his house since the last time I was here. It also means he doesn’t ask me what I’d like to drink but simply assumes that since three-years-ago me would’ve liked a cup of chamomile tea this late at night, present-day me would like that as well.
It should be sweet that he remembers my preferences, but I’m too flustered by our interaction in the driveway to register the sweetness of the gesture. Instead I hear myself ask, “Do you have coffee?”
Do you have coffee?! What is wrong with me? I don’t drink coffee this late! Plus, the man is doing me a huge favor not abandoning me to deal with Ian’s body all on my own, and yet I have the audacity to ask him to make me coffee when he’s already halfway through tea preparations, two mugs with identical tea bags in them already out on the counter.
“Coffee?” Jack faces me, looking surprised. “You drink coffee now?”
“I do,” I say. “But never mind. Tea is fine.”
Jack gives me a curt nod. Behind me his teapot starts whistling. Silently, he fills our mugs then brings them to the table. Then he retrieves a honey bear, two spoons, and a carton of milk from the fridge and sets those out too.
The tea smells heavenly. Truth be told, the only reason I no longer drink chamomile tea is because it reminds me of nights like this…not the gathering together to cover up a murder thing. That’s a first. No, I mean all of the nights spent with Jack, cozied up in his house, drinking tea together, our feet intertwined.
That was a thing of ours, our feet touching. Wherever we went our feet would find their way to each other. Here at his house on the couch, we’d lift our feet onto the ottoman and layer our ankles one on top of the other. At church we’d sit next to each other and my high-heeled foot would rest atop his wingtip dress shoes. When we rode horses together, he’d urge his horse closer to mine, just so he could brush his foot against mine for the briefest of seconds before we both galloped off.
I shake these memories away. They are neither relevant nor helpful to the current situation we’ve found ourselves in, or rather that I’ve put us in.
Oh my gosh. I’m a murderer.
The truth of that statement hits me like a brick to the head, and a sob rips out of me.
“I’m s-sorry,” I blubber, clutching my stomach like that will help keep the sobs in.
Rather than answering, Jack rises from his chair and disappears from the room. He’s had enough of me. A fresh wave of tears shudders through me, and I place my head in my hands, letting them flow freely.
There’s a sudden weight over my back and the sound of something being set down in front of me. I pull my hands away from my face to see a box of tissues on the table. The weight on my back, I discover, is a blanket. And not just any blanket. It’s one I knit. I gave it to Jack on our first Christmas as a couple.
And he kept it all of these years.
My heart squeezes in my chest. Why did he walk away from me? Why couldn’t he have just kept things as they were between us instead of trying to change everything?
No, I brush this last thought away; it’s selfish of me to even think that. Jack made his intentions and desires clear three years ago.
I was the one who said no.
Although, in the end, he was the one to walk away.
I grab a handful of tissues and stuff them to my face, certain that there’s a sexy combination of snot, mascara, and red blotches on full display there. As if the dead body in his garage isn’t enough to cement this truth, my face is now like a walking billboard that screams: That’s right, Jack. You won our breakup. Woo-hoo. Party hat emoji.
I take a shaky breath, determined to pull myself together. Jack is sitting across from me looking annoyed. His jaw is set, and the hand that rests on the table is clenched so tightly his knuckles are turning white. Clearly he’s regretting his invitation for me to come inside.
“Okay,” I pull the blanket more tightly around myself, then settle my back more firmly against the back of my chair, as if good posture can somehow save me. “What do you want to know?”
He lets out a derisive snort, finally unclenching his hand to splay it flat on the table. “How about who was the guy? Your boyfriend?”
Was it my imagination or did his voice stumble over that word?
Definitely my imagination. Jack gave up his feelings for me a long time ago and showing up on his doorstep with a dead body in tow definitely isn’t going to bring them back.
“No!” I exclaim. “Nothing like that. We were not romantically involved. Ian is my boss. Err, was my boss.” The change to past tense makes my stomach turn. “I had a flat tire leaving work,” I press on, “and he offered me a ride home.”
“And you accepted?” He’s incredulous. And it ruffles my feathers.
“It’s not like I knew he was going to try and assault me!” I cry. “He’s my boss and we had a relatively good working relationship.”
I’m not sure if he even heard this last part. On the word assault he stood up so quickly the chair beneath him crashed to the floor. He barely seems to notice, though, too busy pacing across the room, his posture tense.
I sit quietly, watching him. Waiting for a cue to move on with the story, annoyed at the tiny thrill I feel seeing his anger on display like this.
Anger on my account.
Do not find your brooding and protective ex-boyfriend attractive, Nora, I berate myself. After all, Jack is an honorable man who would feel angry on behalf of any woman who experienced what you did.
When he finally turns to face me once more his eyes are molten.
“I apologize,” he grits out, “both for my outburst and for any insinuation that what occurred was in any way your fault. You were a victim, plain and simple.” He draws in a haggard breath, then steps forward clutching the edge of the table tightly. “But know this, Nora. If you hadn’t killed him already, I’d be hunting him down to do it myself. Which means,” fire glints across his irises, oddly mesmerizing, “from now on, we’re in this thing together. Equally culpable.”
As soon as the words are out he pulls abruptly away from the table, running a hand over his face, then saying in a detached tone, “But we need to act fast. I assume your car is still at the office?”
I nod mutely, still reeling from his declaration. And frankly, shocked that he’s actually agreeing to help me. Jack Reynolds is nothing if not a rule follower. Once, when we were dating, we drove across the state to see a Michigan football game. I had to go to the bathroom, but the lines at the first gas station we stopped at were crazy long from all of the game traffic so he drove me over to a nearby grocery store. First he refused to drop me off at the curb near the entry because of a sign that said “No stopping, standing, parking” and then I came out of the restroom to find him in line purchasing a pack of gum. “Oh, I have some gum if you need it,” I told him, but he declined the offer explaining that he was only buying the gum because there’d been a sign posted on the entry door stating that restrooms were for paying customers only.
That’s Jack for you. Following even the most insignificant of rules.
And yet here he is plotting how to help me get away with murder.
The juxtaposition between these two versions of him is making my imagination work overtime as it concocts notions about suppressed romantic feelings for me being the driving force for his actions.
But I tell my imagination to shut up, then focus back on the task at hand.
“Yes,” I tell him, “my car is there.”
“Okay. And did anyone see you leave with—”
“Ian,” I supply and his lips sneer into a disgusted frown as he repeats the name back to me.
“Right. Ian. Did anyone see you leave together?”
“The only other person there,” I inform him, “was the night security guard Frank. I don’t know if he saw us or not. He usually walks the building at night, so it depends where he was in his rounds.”
I can tell Jack doesn’t like this information by the way his chin dips hard to his shoulder and his eyes close, but all he says is, “Okay.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “First thing we need to do is take a picture of your wrist. Right now that’s the only evidence we have that corroborates your story, and it could be gone in the next day or two.”
“Okay.” I nod and move my arm out from under the blanket, displaying the purple bruise there. Already it’s fading. One faint bruise certainly doesn’t seem like much in terms of proof.
Jack snaps pictures of it in silence, making sure to catch it from every angle.
“Alright,” he finally declares, “that’s enough. I’m sorry to have to make you do this on a night when you probably just want to go to sleep and forget the horror of the day, but we’re working against the clock.” As he speaks he looks at his watch, the table, his discarded mug—anywhere but at me. “First things first, we’ll need to get your car. We’ll take mine over there and get yours all fixed up, that way it’s gone in the morning and no one will have any questions about how you got home.”
“What about Frank?”
Jack doesn’t hesitate, clearly already having considered this detail. The sureness of his countenance comforts me. There’s someone else taking over my problem, and I am more than willing to let him lead.
“We’ll have to make sure he sees us out there taking care of your car. That way if he did see you get in Ian’s car he’ll assume you made it home without any problems. And if he didn’t see you, he’ll assume I came to help. And that will be that.”
“Yeah,” I say, “until Ian doesn’t show up for work tomorrow. Then what?”
Jack’s steel gray eyes finally look straight at me. “That’s why we’ve gotta get moving. After we take care of your car we’ve got a murder to stage.”