Chapter 49
N ora
My phone buzzes again from the nightstand. I’ve been avoiding looking at it all day and finally give in. Three missed calls from Jericho. Two texts.
I pick it up, thumb hovering over the screen. Not ready to read his words, but unable to ignore them any longer.
The first text is simple:
Can we talk?
The second, sent hours later:
“I understand if you need space. When you’re ready to hear it, I’ll tell you everything.”
No excuses. Just an offer of truth when I’m ready for it. Isn’t that what I wanted?
I set the phone down without responding and turn off the light. In the darkness, I stare at the ceiling, my mind spinning with everything I thought I knew and everything I’m now questioning.
The truth is never as simple as we want it to be. Not about my father. Not about Jericho. Not about myself.
Sleep, when it finally comes, is fitful and shallow, with dreams fragmented with images of my father in a hospital, of Jericho’s mugshot, of hands that fix things and hands that break them.
I wake before dawn, my sheets twisted around my legs like restraints, my shirt drenched with sweat.
I didn’t want to sleep naked as I usually do—a layer of clothes offered me extra protection from the world.
The house is silent, that peculiar hush that comes when you’re the only one awake in a sleeping world.
My head pounds from crying, from thinking too much. I need air. Space. Clarity.
I dress quietly in jeans and a sweater, pulling my coat from the hook by the back door. The morning is brittle with cold, my breath clouding in front of me as I step outside.
It’s quiet. Too quiet. There’s no one to keep me company. Not even the rooster.
Without conscious thought, my feet take me to my truck, and I start driving to the one place where everything makes sense—the diner. The familiar space welcomes me, smelling of coffee and grease and comfort. I flip on just the kitchen lights, leaving the dining area in shadow.
The routine soothes me—measuring coffee, filling the machine, listening to it gurgle and hiss. I lean against the counter, watching the dark liquid drip into the pot, trying to quiet my mind.
The back door opens, and I startle, nearly dropping my mug, since we don’t use that door in the mornings.
“Sorry,” Roman says, raising his hands. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “ I got milk in my truck; didn’t want to carry it around the whole building.”
“It’s fine,” I say, relaxing. “What are you doing here so early?”
He hangs his coat on the hook. “Could ask you the same thing.”
I shrug, not ready to talk about it. Roman, bless him, doesn’t push. He moves around the kitchen with practiced ease, pulling out pans, turning on the grill.
“Figured I’d start the biscuits early today,” he says, his voice a comfortable rumble in the quiet. “Got a feeling we might be busy.”
I pour him coffee out of habit, sliding it across the counter. “Thanks for not asking.”
He nods, taking a sip. “It takes everything in me not to.”
I smile weakly because I know just how much it takes for him to stay quiet, and we start working in companionable silence, him mixing dough, me prepping vegetables for the day’s soup—I’ve never been happier to help Roman with veggie chopping.
The methodical work is meditative, allowing my thoughts to settle.
After a while, not looking up from his work, Roman says, “He came by the diner yesterday evening, looking like death crawled out of his ass. Didn’t say why but I figured he was looking for you.”
I don’t pretend not to know who he means. “What did you tell him?”
“That whatever he did, he’d better get his shit figured out, or I’d be doing a different kind of chopping.” He separates out the biscuit dough with precise movements.
I nod, focusing on the carrots under my knife.
“He looked really rough though,” Roman continues, his tone casual but his words deliberate.
My knife stills. “Did he tell you why?”
“No,” Roman glances up. “Should he? ”
I shrug, contemplating if I should tell him.
“Is it about him being a con?”
My head whips toward him. “You knew?”
He shrugs, returning to his biscuits. “Suspected. My cousin Vitaly did five years upstate. Way he carried himself after. Way he checked exits in a room. Way he never quite relaxed, even at family dinners. Got confirmation yesterday evening though, when someone came to the diner and started talking about it. Suppose Dick had been busy running his mouth the whole day.”
I swallow hard, resuming my chopping. “So, he told everyone after he told me then.”
“Who?” He freezes midair with a spatula. “Dick?”
“Yes. He told me.”
“Figures.” Roman slides a tray of raw biscuits into the oven. “He’s had it out for the fella since the moment they met.”
“He has.” I let out a surprised chuckle.
“What was he in for?” he asks nonchalantly while grabbing a knife from the magnet holder on the wall.
“I don’t know.”
His head turns to me with a surprised look on his face. “He didn’t tell you?”
“I didn’t exactly give him a chance,” I reply, shamefully averting my eyes.
He puts the knife on the table and faces me with hands on his waist. “Do I want to know why?”
A shake of my head is my answer.
“Do you want me to go and ask him? I can do that.”
Another shake. “I gotta do it myself.” Then, lifting my narrowed eyes at him, I ask, “Aren’t you even a little bit concerned?”
His face softens as he walks up to me. Placing his big, familiar hands on my shoulders, he says, “I’m always concerned for you, Nora.
You’re like another child of mine. But I see the world different from you, and I see that sometimes a man has to go to certain lengths to protect what he loves.
And I think this man will go to any length to protect you. ”
My throat closes up with a silent sob, and he pulls me into his warm embrace.
“And if he hurts you, there’re big lengths I’ll go to protect the ones I love.”
He’s holding me for however long I need to cry. Over my father and my mom, over the past and the future. Over everything I’ve missed because of my fear. Over the stupid mistake I might have made.
I pull away, wiping my tears. The kitchen feels too small suddenly, too warm. “I should go before the others arrive. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”
Roman nods, understanding in his eyes. “Take the day if you need it. We’ll manage.”
I hang my apron on its hook, grateful for his kindness. “Thank you, Roman. I don’t say it enough, but thank you for always being there for us.”
Outside, the sky is growing brighter, the first pale streaks of dawn breaking through the clouds. The air is sharp with coming snow, the kind of cold that clears your head.
I walk without direction, letting my feet carry me through the sleeping town. Out of the parking lot where Dick showed me that damn article. Past the church with its stained glass catching the early light. Past the library where I spent so many afternoons as a child.
Eventually, I find myself at the edge of town, where the road curves toward the state forest. There’s a small lookout here, a wooden platform built by the Rotary Club years ago. It offers a view of the valley, of the town nestled below like a collection of toys.
I sit on a bench, pulling my coat tighter around me. From here, I can see it all—the shadows of the diner, the church spire, the town square. The place I’ve always belonged. The place I ran back to when the world got too big, too scary.
I close my eyes, letting the cold air fill my lungs.
The anger has faded somewhat, leaving behind a dull ache of disappointment.
Not just in him, but in myself. For letting the fear of many things run my life for far too long.
For my one-sided view of the world that clouded my judgment.
For judging others without giving them the benefit of the doubt.
My father wasn’t just a victim. He had a temper. He made mistakes. This new knowledge doesn’t diminish my love for him or the pain of his loss, but it does make him more human. More real. It makes my last memory of him change its colors.
Could I do the same for Jericho?