Chapter 111
Nora's POV
Julian lowered himself onto the bench beside me, leaving careful space between us. He didn't speak, didn't reach for me. Just sat there in his loosened tie and rolled shirtsleeves.
We stayed like that for several minutes. The wind gusted harder, sending dead leaves skittering across the pavement. I watched them swirl and dance, my mind mercifully blank.
I turned to look at him. There were shadows under his eyes. Since he'd called me from the airport, he'd probably been running between work and my affairs around the clock.
"I didn't even get to say goodbye," I whispered. "Not really."
Julian's hand found mine, his palm warm and slightly rough. "You said goodbye in the dream. That horse, those wind chimes—she was letting you know she was leaving."
Julian's grip tightened on my hand.
"Nora." Julian's voice was low and raspy. "What your mother did—that was her choice. Her way of finding peace. It doesn't mean you failed her."
"Doesn't it?"
"No." Then he pulled me into his arms, one hand cupping the back of my head. "You loved her the best way you could. That's all anyone can do."
I buried my face in his shoulder, and tears came again—silent, relentless streams soaking through his shirt. He didn't tell me everything would be okay. Didn't offer empty platitudes. Just held me while I broke apart, his hand steady at the base of my skull.
When the tears stopped, I pulled back, wiping my face with shaking hands. "I should go up. Marianne—"
"Can wait five more minutes." Julian brushed his thumb across my cheekbone, catching a stray tear. "Breathe first."
I did. Deep breath in, slow breath out. The tightness in my chest eased fractionally.
"Thank you," I said. "For everything. The funeral arrangements, being here, I—"
"Don't." He cut me off gently. "You don't have to thank me for caring about you."
The simple honesty of it made my throat tight. I nodded, not trusting my voice.
We stood up together. Julian helped me to the parking lot.
"Call me if you need anything," he said. "Doesn't matter what time."
"I will."
I watched him walk back to his car, then leave.
---
I stood in the parking lot watching the funeral attendees depart.
Henry walked over and gave me a brief hug.
"I'm so sorry," he said.
"Henry. Stop." I pulled an envelope from my purse. "You've done more than enough. This is the bill you covered for Mom's treatment. I've set up a payment plan—"
He stared at the check I was holding out. "Nora, the hospital refunded everything two days ago."
My hand froze. "What?"
"The medical expenses I paid were returned. Apparently someone paid for everything for you." His brow furrowed. "You didn't know?"
Julian.
He'd quietly paid off the debt without a word, without asking for acknowledgment or gratitude.
"I need to make a call," I managed.
Henry watched me carefully, and I saw the moment understanding dawned in his eyes. His expression shifted, became carefully neutral.
"Inspector Sterling," he said quietly. Not a question.
I couldn't meet his eyes. "Henry, I—"
"It's okay." He cut me off, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I saw how he looked at you at the funeral." A pause. "Can I ask you something?"
I braced myself. "Yeah."
"Can we... can we still be friends? Actually friends, I mean. Not this weird almost-something we've been doing."
Relief flooded through me. "I'd really like that."
A small, sad smile. "Good. Because you're going to need friends who aren't intimidated by your boyfriend's security clearance."
"He's not my—" I started, then stopped. We'd never really defined the relationship. But it felt like we'd naturally become each other's partners.
Henry's smile gained a trace of real warmth. "Sure. Whatever you say." He glanced at his watch. "I need to catch my flight back. But Nora? Make sure he deserves you. Because you deserve someone who shows up."
I watched him drive away, something bittersweet settling in my chest. Henry had been safe, uncomplicated. But safe wasn't what I needed anymore.
My phone was already in my hand.
I sat in my car and pulled over, staring at the screen for a long moment before typing.
[The treatment bill. Was that you?]
The response came almost instantly.
[Yes.]
Just that. No explanation, no expectation of repayment or thanks. I started three different responses, deleted them all, then finally sent:
[I'll pay you back.]
This time, silence.
Owing Henry felt different than owing Julian. Less like a debt and more like... trust. Like he'd quietly shouldered a burden without asking for anything in return.
Owing him is more dangerous, I thought. But maybe that's the point.
I put the car in drive and headed back to work.
---
April blurred into a haze of deadlines and insomnia.
I threw myself into work with manic focus—spending twelve, fourteen-hour days at the NPR office, conducting interviews, reviewing footage, writing and rewriting scripts until the words lost all meaning. During daylight hours, I was functional. Productive, even.
But at night, the dreams came.
Always the same: wind chimes singing in an invisible breeze, Mom's laughter echoing from somewhere just out of reach.
I'd wake with my pillow soaked, that phantom sound still ringing in my ears.
Work became my armor. If I stayed busy enough, if I moved fast enough, maybe I could outrun the grief stalking me.
Julian noticed. Of course he noticed.
He started appearing at odd times—waiting outside the building when I worked late, always "in the area" when I needed a ride, texting to make sure I'd eaten something other than coffee and energy bars.