Chapter 47
N ora
I don’t remember the walk home. One moment I’m storming out of Jericho’s house, and the next I’m standing in my kitchen, staring at the wall, my hands gripping the counter so hard my knuckles have gone white.
The kettle whistles, startling me. I don’t remember putting it on.
I pour hot water over a tea bag and watch the color bleed out, staining the water amber. Like secrets spilling out, changing everything they touch, and in this case, my whole damn life.
My father’s face keeps flashing in my mind. The hospital room. The machines. The bruises that bloomed across his temple and cheekbone like violent watercolors. Everything that happened after: my mom rushing to the hospital and getting into an accident. And just like that, our family was no more.
All because some drunk couldn’t control his temper outside a bar .
Now here I am, falling for a man who did the same thing to someone else.
“Nora?” Grandma’s voice comes from the doorway. “You’re home early.”
I turn, trying to compose my face into something resembling normal. “Yeah.”
She studies me, head tilted. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” The lie feels thick on my tongue, even though I don’t know why I bother—the truth will be out for the whole town to know by the end of today.
“Child.” She crosses the kitchen, taking my hands in hers. “I’ve known you since you were nothing but a hiccup in your mother’s belly. Don’t tell me ‘nothing’ when I can see everything’s wrong.”
The tears come then, hot and sudden. She pulls me into her arms, and I let myself be held, feeling like a little girl again, lost and confused and hurting.
“He was in prison,” I finally manage, my voice muffled against her shoulder. “For beating someone. Nearly killing them.”
She stiffens slightly but doesn’t let go. “I see.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
She pulls back, looking at me with those eyes that always see too much. “Small towns, honey. People talk.”
“You knew?” I step away from her, betrayal fresh and sharp. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“It wasn’t my story to tell.” She sighs, reaching for my hand again. “And I don’t know the details, just whispers from an old frog from Little Hope. I figured he’d tell you when he was ready, and you’d tell me if you decided on doing so.”
“Well, he didn’t,” I say bitterly. “Dick did.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Did he? What’s he got to do with this?”
I explain about the meeting in the parking lot, the article, the mugshot. With each word, her frown deepens .
“That boy,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Always stirring pots that aren’t his to stir.”
“That’s what you’re focusing on? Dick being Dick?” I can’t keep the incredulity from my voice. “Not the fact that Jericho nearly killed someone and hid it from me?”
“I’m not saying what he did was right—neither the violence nor keeping it from you,” she says carefully. “But there are always two sides to every story.”
“And what’s his side?” I demand, pacing the kitchen now. “What possible justification could there be for nearly beating someone to death?”
Grandma watches me, her face unreadable. “I don’t know. That’s why you should ask him.”
“I can’t even look at him right now.” My voice breaks. “Dad died because of someone’s violence. Mom died because she was rushing to the hospital to be with him. How could I possibly?—”
“Your parents’ death was a tragedy,” she interrupts, her voice gentle but firm. “But it doesn’t mean every violent act comes from the same place.”
“Violence is violence.” My teeth grind.
“Is it?” She raises an eyebrow. “What about self-defense? What about protecting someone else?”
I stop pacing. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that before you condemn the man, you might want to hear why he did what he did.” She picks up my abandoned tea and presses it into my hands. “People aren’t just one thing, Nora. Not all bad. Not all good.”
“He lied to me.”
“He omitted. There’s a difference.” She sighs. “Though I’ll grant you, it’s a fine one.”
“I trusted him,” I whisper, the pain of it fresh again. “I let him in.”
“Yes, you did.” She touches my cheek. “ And that took courage, after everything. Don’t throw it away without making sure it’s what you really want.”
I sink into a chair, cradling the warm mug. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Then give yourself time to figure it out.”
A knock at the door makes us both turn. My heart lurches, thinking it might be Jericho, but Cheryl’s voice calls out a moment later.
“Anyone home?” She appears in the doorway, still in uniform, hat tucked under her arm. Her smile fades when she sees my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say automatically.
Grandma gives me a pointed look. “Your sister’s been crying. Seems her boyfriend neglected to mention he’s an ex-con.”
“Grandma!” I protest.
Cheryl’s eyes widen. “Jericho? He’s been in prison?”
“Four years for aggravated assault,” I confirm, watching her expression shift from surprise to professional assessment.
“I knew I should have run a background check,” she mutters, more to herself than to us. “I should have done that after seeing how odd he looked when I mentioned assault to him on the first night I met him. Something wasn’t right about him, I knew it.”
Her furrowed brows and pinched lips are a clear indication that she was not onto it.
“You didn’t know?” I ask, surprised that she really didn’t check him.
She shakes her head. “I didn’t want to do that to you. Remember our deal? I chose the wrong time to keep it,” she adds with a heavy sigh.
The deal we made when we were in high school.
Living in a small town and going to the same school means people are bound to poke their noses into each other’s love lives.
When I was in ninth grade and Cheryl was graduating, she punched Dick in the nose when she thought he did me wrong.
He didn’t, at least not that time, but the damage was done, and I was devastated when he refused to talk to me for a week.
That’s when we promised each other not to get involved in each other’s relationships.
Cheryl sits across from me, her face serious.
“I’m sorry, Nora. I wanted to run a check on him.
I did. But I also wanted to be a good sister—” She trails off.
“We both decided not to get involved in each other’s love life.
” She blows air forcefully. “I shouldn’t have listened to the stupid pact we made years ago.
I thought he was good. I didn’t sense anything bad from him.
Nothing at all. He’s always given me protective vibes.
Always.” Her voice breaks at the end. “I guess I’m not so good at my job after all. ”
I watch her rapidly aging face. This news has taken away all of her confidence as a cop.
“You were right though, he’s very protective.” And possessive. Yet I’ve never felt fear with him before.
“I’ll look into this for you.” She nods, more to herself than to me. “And find out exactly what happened.”
“No,” I say quickly, surprising myself. “I don’t want you involved.”
“I’m already involved. You’re my sister,” her features sharpen, “and it was my job to look out for you. No more pacts.”
“Please, Cheryl.” I rub my temples, feeling a headache starting to build. “I need to figure this out myself.”
She looks like she wants to argue but catches Grandma’s warning glance. “Fine. But if you change your mind…”
“I know where to find you.” I attempt a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
The kitchen falls silent, the only sound the steady tick of the clock on the wall. Each second feels heavier than the last, weighted with all the things I don’t know, all the decisions I’m not ready to make .
“I think I need to be alone for a while,” I finally say, rising from the table.
Grandma nods, patting my hand. “Take all the time you need, dear.”
Cheryl looks less convinced but stands too. “I’ll check on you later.”
I climb the stairs to my room slowly, each step an effort. Inside, I close the door and sink onto my bed, staring out the window and hoping to get a glimpse of my neighbor.
The man I thought I knew.
Then I run to the window and pull the curtains shut before I return to the bed, pull my knees to my chest, and let the tears come again, quiet and relentless.
For my father and my mom. For the trust I thought I’d finally found.
For the future I’d started to imagine with a man who turned out to be a stranger.
Hours pass. Grandma shows up to open the curtains, saying, “Sun brings clarity to dark times,” before she softly closes the door behind her.
The light changes, shadows stretching across my floor as the day wanes. My phone buzzes several times, but I don’t check it. I’m not ready for his explanations or excuses. Not yet.
When the sun finally sets, I drag myself to the shower, letting the hot water wash away the salt tracks on my cheeks. I change into clean pajamas and crawl back into bed, exhausted but knowing sleep won’t come easily.
Just as I’m about to turn off the lamp, there’s a soft knock at my door.
“I’m fine, Grandma,” I call out, not wanting company.
The door opens anyway, and Grandma steps in, carrying a mug of something steaming and a small plate with two cookies.
“I wasn’t asking,” she says, setting the items on my nightstand. “Hot chocolate. Extra marshmallows. ”
Despite everything, I feel a smile tug at my lips. “I’m not ten anymore.”
“No, but some remedies are timeless.” She sits on the edge of my bed, her weight familiar and comforting. “When you were little and had a bad day, this was all it took to make things right again.”
“I wish it were still that simple.” I accept the mug from her hand and take a sip. And instantly start coughing—the hot liquid burning my throat, and not only from the temperature.
“I added a pinch of bourbon,” she chuckles.
“A pinch?” I keep coughing because it feels like half the bottle is in my cup; I don’t even taste the chocolate.
“In my measurements, yes.” She smooths my damp hair back from my face, her touch gentle. “You know, your father wasn’t just a victim of violence. He was a complex man who made mistakes, had regrets.”
I frown, confused by the sudden change in topic. “What do you mean?”
She sighs, her eyes distant. “Your father had a temper, Nora. Not many people saw it—he kept it controlled, hidden behind that gentle smile everyone remembers. But it was there.”
I sit up straighter, unsettled by this revelation. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that the night before his accident, before that man attacked him, your father was in a fight of his own.” She smooths the quilt with her weathered hand. “At a bar across town. He’d said some things he shouldn’t have to the wrong person.”
“No.” I shake my head, disbelieving. “Dad wasn’t violent.”
“He wasn’t a violent man, no. But he had moments, like we all do.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “The man who attacked him—it wasn’t random. It was the brother of the man your father had words with before.”
“Words?”
“They had a fight the night before. I remember he came here with a bruise on his face.”
I focus on my hands. “I don’t remember that.”
“Why would you? You loved your father and wanted to see the best in him.”
The room seems to tilt. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“You were young. You’d just lost him. What good would it have done to complicate your grief?” She takes my hand. “I’m telling you now because I want you to understand that people aren’t all one thing. Your father was a good man who sometimes made mistakes. And maybe Jericho is too.”
I pull my hand away, needing space from this new reality. “That doesn’t excuse what he did.”
“No, it doesn’t. But it might explain it.” She stands, patting my knee through the blanket. “Drink your chocolate before it gets cold. And remember—listening to someone’s story doesn’t mean you have to forgive them.”
She leaves, closing the door softly behind her, leaving me with more questions than answers.
I reach for the bourbon with a splash of hot chocolate, taking a small sip. The sweetness and bitterness are soothing my senses, making me feel more numb to the pain.
My father had a temper. My father got into fights. The narrative I’ve built my life around—innocent victim of senseless violence—suddenly has cracks in its foundation.