It means admitting that Scott Sullivan is still capable of causing damage, still pulling strings, still poisoning everything he touches.
But it also means finally having a chance to stop him.
CHAPTER15
THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE, OR WILL IT?
NORA
“Mom?”
The word leaves my mouth before I even realize I’ve said it, carried into a house that isn’t mine but somehow feels like it could have been—warm, lived-in, full of soft edges and softer light.
Nick’s house used to be a bachelor renovation project.But now?Now it isn’t that.I step into the hallway and immediately see mom everywhere.They weren’t waiting for an engagement to start building a life.
They already had.
Piece by piece.
Two people choosing the slow, steady kind of love that doesn’t need announcements to exist.
And it makes sense in a way that feels so obvious I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.Their lives fit.Not because they forced them to, but because compatibility isn’t some cosmic accident—it’s the accumulation of a thousand tiny choices that sayyes, I want you here.
“She’s down at the clinic,” Nick calls from the living room, as if sensing me pause in the doorway.“She’ll be back within the hour.”
I follow the sound of his voice and find him surrounded by spreads of old photographs and neatly arranged documents, his hands moving with that thoughtful gentleness that is so him.He looks up when I enter, really looks, the way people do when they’ve begun to care about your emotional weather.
“How are you doing, Nora?”
There it is again—the new standard greeting.Something in me bristles—not at Nick, but at the question itself.
As if I’ve become a species that needs special handling.
As if “fine” was ever attainable.
I take the chair across from him.
The place isn’t flashy—nothing like the over-the-top mansions around Eden—but it feels intentional.
Every corner holds Nick’s careful touch: the built-in bookcases flush to the wall, the flawlessly measured window trim, the handmade mugs that seem too heavy until you’re actually holding them.And then there’s Mom’s books, her glasses, her blanket draped over the sofa.
His sweater folded over her chair.
“You know,” I say slowly, choosing every word like it might slip out of my hands, “I think that’s the only question anyone knows how to ask me anymore.”
Nick sets down the photo he’s holding—a Christmas snapshot of Mom and me, both smiling, both unaware of the disaster waiting around the corner—and gives me his full attention.That’s the thing about him: when he listens, he’s all in.
No half-interest, no distracted nods, just presence.
“You’re right,” he says after a moment.“We’ve confused ‘okay’ with ‘fixed.’As if healing is a place you arrive at instead of something you move through.”
His words land somewhere deep, somewhere sore.
“Your mom mentioned you haven’t been sleeping,” he adds gently.
He realizes the overstep the instant it’s out—his eyes widen slightly, empathy rushing in.
“Sorry—that’s not my business.That’s between you and your mother.”
