“She doesn’t want to hear it from me.”
“Maybe not yet. But she will.” Cheryl stands, tossing bills on the table. “Give her time.”
I stay seated, watching her gather her coat. “Why are you helping me?”
She pauses, considering. “I’m not. I’m helping my sister. And maybe myself a little.”
“How’s that?”
“Because I’m tired of watching her run from anything that might hurt her.” She shrugs. “And because I’ve been a cop long enough to know that good people sometimes do bad things for the right reasons.”
With that, she leaves, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft thud that echoes in the now-quiet bar. I sit there for a long time, turning my beer bottle between my palms, watching the condensation leave more rings on the table.
Time. That’s what Cheryl said Nora needs. But time is the one thing I’ve never been good at giving. Prison taught me patience in some ways, made me restless in others. The need to fix things, to make them right, to control what I can—it runs deep.
And I’ve never wanted to fix anything as badly as I want to fix this.
The bar has emptied by the time I finally leave, the parking lot dark except for a single flickering streetlight. My truck sits alone, dusted with the first flakes of a fresh snowfall. It feels fitting somehow—clean, silent, covering everything in a blank slate.
I drive home slowly, the roads slick with new snow. The house is dark when I pull in, no welcoming lights, no sign of life. For the first time in years, I don’t immediately flip every switch, chase away every shadow. Instead, I sit in the darkness, letting it settle around me like an old friend.
Maybe it’s time to stop running from my own shadows. Maybe it’s time to face them, name them, own them. Not just for Nora’s sake, but for mine.
I pick up my phone, staring at the screen for a long moment before typing out a message.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then set the phone aside. Whether she reads it or not, whether she believes me or not—that’s out of my control now.
All I can do is wait. And hope that when she’s ready, she’ll listen.
The snow falls harder outside, covering the world in silence. For once, I welcome it.
49
Nora
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 mindspinning 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.
