Where the Truth Lives

by Mia Sheridan

  As Reed tossed his phone back on the counter, his stomach growled. Christ, when was the last time I ate? He vaguely remembered inhaling a Snickers somewhere around noon, after he’d talked to Liza and the proverbial shit had hit the fan. Liza. He briefly considered calling her, asking her if he could take her to dinner, but she’d said she was going to take the week to get some R&R, order room service . . . hell, it was way past dinnertime anyway. She’d probably eaten hours ago.

  He wondered though . . . who cared for Liza? Did she have people she turned to when the weight of life’s challenges became too heavy to carry alone? Or was that when she headed out to pick up a random man in some bar? His gut rolled. Jealousy. He had no right to it.

  After putting in an order for Chicken Makhani at the Indian restaurant close by, he took his beer and his laptop to the couch. He sat down, kicked his feet up on the coffee table, and set his laptop on his thighs before logging in. It took him about twenty minutes to find out that Julian James Nolan had been paroled three days before.

  He lifted his eyes from the screen, grabbing his beer from the side table and taking a long sip. Fuck. How did that fit in with someone breaking in to Liza’s apartment, if it did at all? It seemed . . . coincidental though, and Reed was leery of coincidence. His job had taught him that.

  His doorbell rang, and he set his laptop aside, answering the door to hot Chicken Makhani. He wolfed it down at the counter, thanking the food gods for Uber Eats and ten minutes later he was back on the couch, laptop in place, second beer cracked, body re-fueled.

  He did some online digging but couldn’t find any information about Julian Nolan’s current whereabouts. It’d only been three days though. He’d have to make a call in the morning to find out who his parole officer was.

  He took a slow drink of his beer, his fingers tapping the side of his laptop. He hesitated very briefly, feeling a hint of guilt, but telling himself it was in the interest of Liza’s safety that he look up more information on the nature of her brother’s crime. If he was going to make a determination about how likely it was that the man broke in to her apartment and left a white rose on her pillow, he needed to find out more about who he was.

  Reed did a search for Julian’s name and a series of hits came up, mostly news articles dating back fifteen years before when Julian Nolan had been arrested for murder and arson. He’d been seventeen years old. A minor.

  Reed read through each article, the knot in his stomach growing tighter and tighter as he learned the horrific details of the things Liza Nolan had suffered. When he’d read through them all, he closed his eyes, his chest constricted, his fingers falling from the keyboard.

  Jesus.

  He sat there in the quiet of his apartment for a few minutes, digesting what he’d read.

  A picture formed in his mind both based on the particulars he’d taken in, and the things he could surmise using his experience as a homicide detective who had entered homes a hundred times over, similar to the one described in the news pieces.

  A house of horrors.

  His lungs tightened, making it hard to breathe.

  His mind filtered through the information, breaking it down into emotionless facts in an attempt to process it without letting it break him.

  Elizabeth Nolan had grown up on the outskirts of a small poverty-stricken town near Dayton, Ohio. Her mother left when she was seven, her brother was eleven, and her little sister, Madelyn was just three. Her father, a pipe fitter by trade, was out of work more often than he was employed, and the family most often subsisted on food stamps, and the small amount of disability benefits Madelyn Nolan received for an undisclosed illness.

  In court, Julian described their father as a drunk who flew into frequent and violent rages, becoming physically abusive with his children, including his sister Elizabeth, who was also the target of sexual abuse.

  The children, who were quiet and kept to themselves, had few friends, if any.

  On a cold night in February, Amos Nolan came home drunk, beat his eldest daughter, and dragged her to the root cellar where he often left one of his children for days at a time when he became angry at some slight or another.

  On that night, Julian Nolan, retrieved a carving knife from the kitchen, walked to the root cellar, came up behind his father and slit his throat from ear to ear. With his father dead, he moved on to his sister, slitting her throat in the same manner and leaving them both dead in the root cellar, or so he thought.

  He then used gasoline and matches from the shed out back to set the house on fire, with his disabled sister Madelyn still inside.

  By the time distant neighbors reported the blaze on the isolated property, it was too late. When firefighters arrived, the house had burned to the ground, and thirteen-year-old Elizabeth Nolan was unconscious in what had been the front yard. She’d lost almost half of her blood, suffered smoke inhalation, and had second-degree burns over the entirety of her hands and arms.

  They later found Julian walking down the dirt road toward town. He surrendered easily, and admitted to the crime immediately.

  His attorney used the defense that the abuse had caused his client to snap, though Julian Nolan showed no emotion in court, even when his sister Elizabeth took the stand, a bandage across her throat, her voice not yet healed from the wound that, had it gone a millimeter farther, would have ended her life.

  A seventeen-year-old Julian received life in prison for his crimes, but in fact, as of three days before, only served fifteen years of that sentence. Evidently, he had been an exemplary prisoner.

  The crime must have been reported on the news all those years ago, but if it was, Reed had been blissfully unaware. While Liza was lying in a hospital, broken and brutalized, Reed had been going about his happy-go-lucky teenage life, playing baseball for his school team, hanging with his buddies, and working up the nerve to kiss his first girlfriend.

  He felt sick, shaken to his core. No wonder, God, no wonder Liza was still attempting to work through her past. How had she made it out? How in the world was she still standing? A mixture of awe and respect burst through him like fireworks exploding in a darkened sky. He thought of his birth mother, of her seemingly impossible strength to endure, and he realized Liza shared that strength. He wondered if she even knew and suspected she didn’t. She saw her weaknesses, and she still felt the pain of things that were not her fault. But he doubted she celebrated her courage, her mere survival. Instead, she covered her scar with clothing, jewelry, or—when unclothed—the fall of her hair. He hadn’t even noticed it until they were in the bright light of her office, where her hand fluttered to it and away as shame altered her features.

  He closed his computer, tossing it onto the couch next to him. He hesitated only a moment before he stood up and grabbed his jacket and his keys.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Liza pulled the robe more tightly around her body as she tiptoed toward the hotel room door where a knock had just sounded. Peering through the peephole, she let out a silent breath of relief even while her heart gave a small jolt. Reed.

  Why did she always have that reaction to him?

  He was gorgeous, and she allowed herself to watch him unawares, struck by his male beauty the same way she’d been that first night. Only, then, she hadn’t known that he wasn’t merely easy on the eyes, he saw things, looked beneath the surface of people in a way few others did. If she had known that about him, she would have turned the other way when he approached the bar.

  At the thought of their potential non-meeting, a zing of panic passed between her ribs and she did her best to dismiss it. It wasn’t right. She couldn’t let herself feel that way.

  Liza shifted on her feet, careful not to make a sound, and his eyes shot up to the peephole, his head tilting as if he’d felt her presence somehow. Why did he look so intense, even through the blurry circle that was barely big enough to allow her to see him with one eye? Of course he looks intense, she thought, considering the case he’s working. They’d found
another body just that morning. The news media was in a frenzy over it. A small shudder went down her spine when she thought back to seeing the picture on the television earlier of the man who looked almost identical to the way she’d discovered Steven Sadowski.

  He raised his hand to knock again and she stepped back, unlocking the door and opening it so he could enter. “Hi.” Her eyes washed over his tight expression, now recognizing the worry that was also in his eyes. She frowned. “Are you okay?”

  He dropped his arm and then raised it again, running a hand through his hair and leaving it sort of messy, sticking up on one side. She smiled internally and ignored the desire to smooth it back down, to feel it under her hand. She smoothed her palm over her thigh as if that might wipe away the need to reach out and touch him. “I looked up your brother.”

  Liza closed the door, turning back to face him again. A trill of nervousness skittered over the nape of her neck. “And?”

  “He’s out, Liza. He got released three days ago. I wanted to come by in person and tell you.”

  Liza swallowed. “Oh,” she said and the word emerged as little more than breath. “Are . . . are you sure?” She walked toward the armoire that held the mini fridge on legs that were suddenly shaky.

  Reed followed. “Yes. I won’t be able to find out more until I get a call back from his parole officer.”

  She opened the fridge and removed a bottle of liquor, holding it up to Reed with a raise of her brows. He shook his head. “No thanks.”

  Liza opened the bottle and poured the liquid into a glass from the shelf over the fridge, grimacing as she forced herself to swallow it. She’d have preferred a glass of wine, but at the moment, she wasn’t going to be picky. Certain occasions demanded a cocktail, like the ones where you learned the brother who’d tried to savagely murder you was a free man. “You think it was him? You think he broke into my apartment?”

  “I don’t have an answer for that. I . . . there weren’t any recent pictures online. Liza . . . you thought it was your father, but is it possible that your brother looks like him now? It’s been fifteen years.”

  Liza stared at him. It’s been fifteen years. He knew. He’d looked up the story. Her stomach sank. Shame spiraled within her, a tornado of pain. She leaned against the armoire behind her and shut her eyes for a moment.

  “You looked up the news articles on the case.”

  He hesitated for only a moment, his eyes moving over her face. “Yes.”

  “Why?” The word was a broken croak.

  “I thought it would be helpful to understand the nature of the crime your brother committed. It’s my job, Liza.”

  She knew that. She couldn’t be angry at him for it. But she also couldn’t deny the anguish she felt. Her eyes held his for a moment. “Is that the only reason? You wanted to know about Julian?”

  “No,” he admitted. “It’s also because . . . I want to know you, Liza. I want to understand . . .” His words faded away as though he didn’t know how to finish that sentence.

  “That’s not getting to know me.” She placed the glass down on the desk next to the armoire and raised her hands and dropped them. “That’s going around me. That’s not my story you read. That’s someone else’s version.”

  “You’re right. It’s not. Those were just words on a page. Someone else’s interpretation. I know that. I didn’t look it up to hurt you. I did it because I care. I care about you.”

  She could see that. His eyes were filled with it and it gutted her, made her want to fall into him. But she couldn’t, and she knew exactly how to make that sweet concern of his fade to mist. Do it, Liza. Even if it hurts. Do it. “You want to know my version?” she asked, picking up the glass again and throwing the liquid back. It burned, but not enough.

  “Someday,” he said softly. “Whenever you want to talk about it.” Someday. But there could be no someday for them.

  “Why not now? You already know all the high points. Let me just fill you in on the details.”

  “Liza—”

  “No. No. Don’t stop me now. I’m ready to open up. I’m ready to talk.” God, she was being such a bitch. She knew it and yet this feeling of wild desperation was clutching her insides, telling her to push push push him away. Make him run. And she couldn’t stop herself. Not now. “Those articles, I’ve read them all too. I know what they say. They say the Nolan children were abused by their alcoholic father. I was raped by my father, Reed.” He flinched and she was glad. He should know this. It was better for him. “I still smell him sometimes,” she said, and wrapped her arms around her body. She was shaking now, that deep, familiar chill rushing through her blood as the phantom scent of liquor, dirty sweat, and tobacco met her nose.

  “Liza, you don’t have to—”

  “No, I do. I do. See, I’d like to say the rapes were the worst of it for me, but that’d be a lie.” She sucked in air. “What else, let’s see? The articles said we were loners, right? No friends? That’s true. But it wasn’t just that we kept to ourselves. The other kids, they thought we were weird. They avoided us, made fun of us, because we smelled bad. Like unwashed clothes and body odor. See, in my house we didn’t have things like soap and laundry detergent. I tried to do the best I could but—” Her shoulders sagged, and she forced them up. Reed was just watching her now, a look of sorrow so powerful on his face she knew it would be tattooed on her heart forever, whether she wanted that or not.

  And she didn’t. She didn’t want that.

  “My sister, Mady, she had muscular dystrophy. It caused a progressive loss of motor control and she was losing the ability to walk. She needed a wheelchair, but of course, my father didn’t have the money for that because he spent it on liquor and gambling. I couldn’t help her, the most I could do was keep him away from her.”

  Liza took a deep shuddery breath, dropping her hands to her sides.

  “Let’s see. The root cellar. That was mentioned, wasn’t it? It was one of his favorite forms of punishment for crimes we never committed. He’d leave us locked in there in the pitch-black for days at a time. Days. Alone. With monsters as big as our imaginations could conjure. The rapes were better than that.”

  “I’m so sorry.” His voice was guttural, filled with sincerity. His heart was in his eyes, she could see it.

  “Is this what you were looking for?” she asked, quietly, shaking her head in answer to her own question. “That night you met me, is this what you hoped you’d find in a woman? Was this the more you were referring to?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that.”

  “No, of course you don’t. It’s not a fair question.” She shook her head, suddenly exhausted. Weary to her bones. “I don’t want to deal with this—to live with it every day—much less ask someone else to.”

  “It’s not all you are, Liza.”

  She leaned back against the armoire again, letting her head fall to the wood for a second, her gaze focused on the ceiling. “The thing about monsters in the dark, Reed, is that if you can’t escape them, you have to let them in. They force you to.”

  “Not you. You didn’t let the monsters in. And you didn’t retreat into yourself either. You focused on Mady. You turned your mind to her, down there in the dark, didn’t you? You focused on your love for her. You get to own that.”

  “Did I?” she murmured. “Not when it mattered. Not that night.” She brought her head forward, eyes locking on Reed’s soulful, pain-filled gaze. “The fire . . . I went inside for her but . . .” A shiver made her body convulse. “I didn’t even get badly burned. The flames were too hot. I turned back, Reed. I don’t even have scars.”

  “Yes, you do. You do have scars.”

  “This one?” she asked, bringing her hand to her throat. He started to shake his head but she went on. “This one doesn’t count. I can’t take credit. No”—she gave her own head a shake—“if I’d been brave, if I’d been good, I would have walked into the fire, no matter how hot. I left her there.”

  “Yo
u don’t believe that, Liza. That’s your guilt talking. Your sister was most likely already dead of smoke inhalation,” he said very carefully. Very gently. “You would have died too. If you’d have gone any farther into the fire, you’d be dead now.”

  “Good!” she choked.

  Reed took a step forward, his expression so incredibly pained. “No. That’s not true.” He let out a deep breath, his chest rising and falling.

  “It is true. And now you get it.”

  “Get what exactly?”

  “Why I can’t manage a relationship with anyone, not even something casual. You’re a good man. You deserve someone without so much baggage.” She attempted a small smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “Think of all those sacrifices your birth mother made so you could live a normal life. A good life. I’m the last type of woman she’d have in mind for you. Don’t you see that?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, Reed, you’re—”

  “You’ve had your say, Liza. Your story is heartbreaking. Enraging. And I am sorry to the depths of my soul that that happened to you. But let me speak now.”

  She felt a moment of confusion. It was not the reaction she’d expected. She’d expected him to be out the door by now. He should be out the door, and here he was, standing in front of her, his gaze latched on to hers, unblinking. “You think that story you just told is your weakness and your shame, but maybe it’s your greatest strength. My birth mother, Josie, figured out how to take control of her story, and she’d be cheering you on to do that too.” He reached out and took her fingers in his. His grip was warm, strong. Safe. “I’m cheering you on,” he finished quietly.

  “Oh, Reed,” she said, a wash of tenderness making her feel even weaker. He was a natural savior. But she didn’t want this. Had no clue how to navigate this unchartered territory. “You’d have saved me if you could have, back then. I know that. You’d have saved your mother if you could have too. But it doesn’t work that way. We’re dealing with now.”