I almost laugh. “No. I’m not meeting you anywhere, especially not at this hour.”
“It’s about your contractor boyfriend. You’ll want to know this if you want to help him.”There’s something in his voice—satisfaction maybe. Like he’s been waiting to say this.
“What about him?”
“Thirty minutes. Your diner. Or he’s on his own.”He hangs up.
I stare at my phone, irritation and unease churning in my stomach. Dick has always been manipulative, but this feels different. There’s something calculated about it; he knew what to say to drag me out at this ungodly hour.
I slip back into the bedroom. Jericho is still sleeping, one arm flung across his face. The light is on, as always. I’ve never asked him why, and he’s never offered an explanation. Just another piece of the puzzle that is this man.
I dress quietly, scribbling a note about running to the diner to check on something. It’s not exactly a lie—I’ll stop there after whatever this meeting with Dick is about.
The morning air is sharp with cold as I push the door of my car open in the diner parking lot. Dick is already there, leaning on his truck, looking like he’s posing for a small-town politician’s campaign photo.
“This better be important,” I say, not bothering with pleasantries as I walk up to him.
He turns to face me, and there’s something triumphant in his expression that makes my skin crawl.
“Did you know your boyfriend is an ex-con?”
I exhale a nervous laugh. “What?”
“Jericho Landell. Served several years for aggravated assault. Nearly beat a man to death.”
The world seems to tilt slightly. “You’re lying.”
He pulls out his phone, swipes a few times, and hands it to me. On the screen is a news article with Jericho’s mugshot—younger, harder, eyes flat and cold in a way I’ve never seen them. The headline reads: “Local Man Sentenced in Brutal Attack.”
My hands feel numb as I scroll through the article, feeling like I’m reading about a stranger.
“He attacked a man outside a bar in Boston,” Dick says, watching my face carefully. “Beat him so badly the guy was in a coma for three days. Multiple facial fractures, internal bleeding. The works.”
I hand the phone back, my fingers trembling slightly. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Thought you should know who you’re sleeping with.” His voice is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of satisfaction that makes me want to slap him. “A violent criminal with a history of losing control.”
“People change,” I say automatically, though my mind is racing, trying to reconcile the man I know—the man who fixes things and kisses me like I’m precious—with this mugshot of a man with cold eyes.
“Do they?” Dick leans closer. “Some people are just wired wrong, Nora. Some people are just violent at their core.”
My father’s face flashes in my mind—the way he looked in that hospital bed after the attack. The way his skull had been fractured by someone who’d just ‘lost control.’
“I need to go.”
“There’s more,” Dick says. “He’s been lying to you about everything. His job, his past?—”
“I said I need to go.” I back away from him, needing space, needing air.
“Nora.” His voice softens, and he reaches for my arm. “I’m just looking out for you.”
I jerk away from his touch. “No, you’re not. You’re enjoying this.”
His expression hardens. “Fine. Go back to him. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when he shows you who he really is.”
I turn and walk away. My thoughts jab at each other inside my mind as I move faster, almost running by the time I reach my car, mentally berating myself for how stupid I was forcoming here to meet Dick. Did I really think he had Jericho’s best interest at heart when he called me? Do I have Jericho’s best interest at heart after what I’ve learned?
My father died because of a man’s violence. Because some stranger couldn’t control his temper and left him with a traumatic brain injury that eventually killed him. I swore I’d never let violence touch my life again.
