Chapter 4 #2
Every time I shower, I think about how my skin sheds like a lizard’s, one of the rare fond memories I have of my mother.
She used to joke that I was like a salamander, with a fresh layer of skin ready to emerge if I scrubbed the old one away thoroughly enough.
It was her way of getting me into the bath when I was a child, as I hated water on my skin.
But thinking I was a real salamander? That made all the difference.
I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist. Just as I’m about to head to the bedroom, my phone rings. It’s Eric calling me back. I answer and put him on speaker, eager to hear his initial findings.
“Hey, Andreas, I’ve organized the info you wanted as best I could, but I’ll tell you now: this doesn’t feel right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, compared to all the other people I’ve ever had to check for you, this one is quite a dull story.
She was born and raised in Bruges, her parents are still together and have lived on the other side of the country since their retirement.
They worked in hospitality their whole lives and owned their own business.
I see little evidence of a close bond—no family photos, no contact, no trips together or dinners.
Nora’s an only child, so no siblings in the picture.
Her grandparents died before she was born or shortly after.
She studied interior architecture, graduated magna cum laude.
After that, she worked for an architecture firm for a few years, and since the beginning of this year, she’s been an independent real estate agent.
She owns the business and the house where it’s located.
She’s deeply in debt because of it, and it will take her years to pay it off.
I don’t know how the business is doing because the first fiscal year isn’t over yet.
I see a few close friends and a cousin she’s often tagged with on social media.
She’s not very active on the platforms herself, a Facebook account that hasn’t been used in years, on Instagram an average of one post a month, all innocuous content.
There’s a separate account for her business, which mainly features interior photos and the houses she’s selling.
She goes running occasionally. Four regular routes on Strava.
Last year she took a photography course, and she spends quite a bit on sandwiches and salads.
I think a speeding ticket is about the worst thing she’s ever done in her life,” Eric concludes.
“At first glance, Nora doesn’t seem like much of a threat to society. ”
“Okay, are there any relationships worth mentioning?” I ask as casually as possible.
“I knew it! This is personal, isn’t it?” Eric asks excitedly.
“Eric, just say it already.” I don’t share his enthusiasm.
“I saved the best for last—she’s single.
Right now anyway, because she did have a steady boyfriend a few years ago.
The only one I could find, by the way. His name is David Devolder.
He seems to be with someone else now. From what I can gather from comments on photos and timelines, there was some overlap between those two relationships.
In other words, I think Nora was cheated on. ”
“Thanks for the info, Eric. Feel free to send me the links to her online profiles, that’s all for now,” I say professionally.
“One more thing, Andreas,” Eric says quickly.
“What?” I ask, curious.
“Good luck, buddy!” he practically shouts. I’ve rarely seen Eric this excited.
“Shut up, Eric,” I say dryly just before hanging up.
Luckily, Eric knows this is exactly the reaction he could expect from me.
I think about the information I’ve received.
The first impression I had of Nora is actually confirmed by the story Eric just laid out.
She’s an ambitious woman working her way up in the world, with a chosen framily instead of relying on her blood relatives.
Not a materialistic woman at first glance, nor someone seeking attention online.
We seem similar in some ways, but unlike me, Nora seems pure and innocent.
She’s probably broken and disillusioned in love.
The information Eric gave me has somehow put me at ease.
I can form a fuller picture of who she is and now perhaps better understand why she reacted so strongly.
The frustration and unchanneled anger that had been simmering in me seem to settle as I process the facts.
I hate how everything always has to be analyzed and sorted out before I can find peace.
A small event can send me spiraling into endless overthinking.
Thinking becomes a desperate attempt to regain control and grasp reality.
I recognize this coping mechanism now—it’s almost a logical response to years of feeling powerless—but stopping it or letting go is another matter entirely.
Exercise helps, loud music too; any distraction works, but today, the need to know and understand was just too great.
Thankfully, Eric’s information brought relief this time, and for the first time since meeting her this afternoon, I feel like I can refocus.
As my thoughts finally become ordered and controlled, I get ready for the last two meetings of the day, one floor down.