Chapter 15 The Truth Will Set You Free,Will It?
THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE, OR WILL IT?
NORA
“Mom?”
The word leaves my mouth before I even realize I’ve said it, carried into a house that isn’t mine but somehow feels like it could have been—warm, lived-in, full of soft edges and softer light.
Nick’s house used to be a bachelor renovation project. But now? Now it isn’t that. I step into the hallway and immediately see mom everywhere. They weren’t waiting for an engagement to start building a life.
They already had.
Piece by piece.
Two people choosing the slow, steady kind of love that doesn’t need announcements to exist.
And it makes sense in a way that feels so obvious I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. Their lives fit. Not because they forced them to, but because compatibility isn’t some cosmic accident—it’s the accumulation of a thousand tiny choices that say yes, I want you here.
“She’s down at the clinic,” Nick calls from the living room, as if sensing me pause in the doorway. “She’ll be back within the hour.”
I follow the sound of his voice and find him surrounded by spreads of old photographs and neatly arranged documents, his hands moving with that thoughtful gentleness that is so him. He looks up when I enter, really looks, the way people do when they’ve begun to care about your emotional weather.
“How are you doing, Nora?”
There it is again—the new standard greeting. Something in me bristles—not at Nick, but at the question itself.
As if I’ve become a species that needs special handling.
As if “fine” was ever attainable.
I take the chair across from him.
The place isn’t flashy—nothing like the over-the-top mansions around Eden—but it feels intentional.
Every corner holds Nick’s careful touch: the built-in bookcases flush to the wall, the flawlessly measured window trim, the handmade mugs that seem too heavy until you’re actually holding them. And then there’s Mom’s books, her glasses, her blanket draped over the sofa.
His sweater folded over her chair.
“You know,” I say slowly, choosing every word like it might slip out of my hands, “I think that’s the only question anyone knows how to ask me anymore.”
Nick sets down the photo he’s holding—a Christmas snapshot of Mom and me, both smiling, both unaware of the disaster waiting around the corner—and gives me his full attention. That’s the thing about him: when he listens, he’s all in.
No half-interest, no distracted nods, just presence.
“You’re right,” he says after a moment. “We’ve confused ‘okay’ with ‘fixed.’ As if healing is a place you arrive at instead of something you move through.”
His words land somewhere deep, somewhere sore.
“Your mom mentioned you haven’t been sleeping,” he adds gently.
He realizes the overstep the instant it’s out—his eyes widen slightly, empathy rushing in.
“Sorry—that’s not my business. That’s between you and your mother.”
“No, it’s fine,” I tell him, and I’m surprised to find I mean it. “I know Mom needs someone to talk to. I’m glad she has you.”
And I am, truly.
For so long, it was just Mom and me clinging to each other in the aftermath. But she deserves someone who can hold her fears without me having to be the adult all the time.
Nick studies me, choosing his next words carefully.
“I want you to know,” he says, “I’ll never try to fill the space your dad left. That’s not something anyone can do. But I’ll always be someone you can come to, if you need it.”
And just like that, emotion hits me like a rogue wave—sudden, overwhelming, ridiculous.
My throat tightens.
My eyes burn.
What the hell is wrong with me?
One kind sentence and suddenly I’m five years old with a scraped knee.
Maybe it’s because he’s not trying to fix anything. He’s just someone you could hand a terrible truth to and trust that it won’t shatter the world.
“I know who caused the accident,” I hear myself say.
Nick freezes—the quiet, controlled kind of stillness that belongs to someone who knows this moment matters.
“The driver that night,” I continue, my voice steadier than I feel. “I know who it was.”
His expression tightens—concern, surprise, something protective.
“It was Scott,” I say. “And there was a woman with him. I didn’t see her face, but… he kept telling her to get back in the car.”
The memory rises too easily: the metallic tang of twisted steel, Scott’s panicked voice, the perfume that didn’t belong there. Sweet and heavy and wrong.
“That’s why I haven’t been sleeping,” I whisper. “The nightmares were manageable for a while, but being back in Eden—being in the same town as him—it’s making everything louder again.”
“Have you talked to your mom about this?” Nick asks quietly.
“No.” It comes out sharper than intended. “She has enough going on. With the wedding and everything. She deserves something good right now. She doesn’t need this mess added to her plate.”
“Nora,” Nick says softly, “first of all your mom is stronger than you think. And she’s been afraid for you without knowing what she’s afraid of.
And second of all, your mess isn’t something you need to carry alone.
You have so many good people around you that would do anything to help you through any mess. Me included.”
I look away, because he’s right and I hate that he’s right.
“Do you remember anything about the woman from that night?” he asks. “Anything at all?”
I shake my head. “No, not really.”
He nods, thoughtful. “If this ever becomes a case against Scott, if you’re ever asked to testify—”
“No.” The word slices out of me. “Absolutely not. And you can’t tell Nate. Promise me you won’t. It would destroy him, Nick. After all the progress and the work he’s done—I will not be the reason he spirals again.”
Nick studies me for a long moment. “I get why you feel that way. But I’ve known Nate long enough to understand something fundamental about him. He needs truth, not more secrets.”
He’s right again. And I hate that too.
“I’m gonna go to the clinic,” I say quietly as I stand. “But please, keep this between us?”
Nick rises as well. “I won’t say a word until you’re ready. I promise.”
Something loosens in my chest at that.
“Thanks, Nick.” I hug him, and he hugs me back without hesitation.
I’m almost out the door when he calls my name.
“Nora?”
I turn.
“Sometimes the people we’re trying to protect are stronger than we think,” he says. “And sometimes we’re not protecting them—we’re protecting ourselves from the fallout of what comes next. You should think about telling Nate what you just told me.”
His words echo in my chest like an ache.
I nod. Not a promise. Just acknowledgement.
I’m halfway down the steps when I remember something.
“Gardenia,” I say, turning back.
Nick waits.
“The perfume she was wearing. It was gardenia. I remember because it didn’t belong there.”
He absorbs that, filing it away with quiet understanding—like someone who knows even small truths can crack open bigger ones.
As I walk away, Dr. Henshaw’s voice rises in my mind: When someone refuses to talk about who hurt them, it’s usually because they’re protecting someone else.
That’s exactly what I’m doing.
But what’s the alternative?
Tell Nate and watch him implode?
Tell Mom and darken her engagement with my shit storm?
No. Some secrets feel worth protecting.
Even if they eat you alive from the inside.
But the thing about secrets is the longer you carry them, the heavier they get.
And the truth?
The truth is stubborn.
It always finds a way to crack through whatever walls you build.
And I’m starting to feel the cracks forming.