Chapter 11
Someone spray-painted TRAITOR across Nora Whitfield’s garage.
A brick broke her front window.
No camera captured the person clearly.
Nathan’s brother, Caleb, posted online that nosy neighbors should “mind their own homes.”
Police investigated.
No immediate charge connected him to the property damage.
Nora refused to leave.
“I spent thirty years in emergency rooms,” she told me. “People always ask why no one noticed. Then when someone notices, they ask why she interfered.”
I visited her after I was discharged.
Walking across the street took nearly ten minutes.
My abdomen remained wrapped.
Burn rehabilitation had begun.
Each step pulled at scar tissue.
Nora opened the door and cried when she saw me.
“I’m sorry I waited.”
“You called.”
“I watched more than one night.”
“You called before the last one ended.”
“I should have gone over.”
“You might have been hurt.”
She looked toward my stomach.
“Is Caroline—”
“She’s still in the hospital. Growing.”
Nora covered her mouth.
We sat at her kitchen table.
She showed me none of the footage.
“I don’t want you to see it unless your lawyer says you need to.”
“Did you hear what Judith said?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly?”
Nora looked down.
“She said not to let the baby be born.”
The sentence became heavier when another person carried it.
“She said if both of you died, Nathan could start over with Vanessa.”
I stared at the steam above my tea.
“Did Nathan answer?”
“He said, ‘Then finish heating it.’”
May you like
The iron bar had not been an impulsive escalation.
It was agreement.
