Page 21 of Night Falls on Predicament Avenue
She had picked the wrong career.
She had picked it for Naomi’s sake.
“Harper?” The incredulous male voice echoed down the stairs, along with the thudding footsteps of Sebastian Blaine.
Norah shrank into the wall as the young woman took a quick step forward and launched herself into Sebastian’s embrace.
“Dad!”
Dad?
“Why are you here?” Sebastian held his daughter out from him, his hands on her upper arms. “I thought you were in South America with your mother?”
Harper screwed her face into ayeah-rightexpression. “Mom’s lost her mind. I swear. She’s somewhere in Patagonia now, exploring the natural world with her boyfriend.”
Sebastian shot a look toward Norah, who was frozen in place. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “How ’bout we chat on that later? How did you know where I was?”
Harper waggled her phone in the air. “Find-a-friend, bruh.”
“Okay, okay.” Sebastian looked uncomfortable. He kept glancing at Norah, who frankly had no desire or reason to move. She could escape, but then she’d have to come back and check Harper into a room. Best to get it done so it was out of the way.
“Can I get you checked in?” Norah forced herself to offer a wobbly smile.
Harper met her eyes. “Sure! That’d be great.”
“Wait.” Sebastian held up his palms. “You’restayin’?”
“Is that a problem?” Harper hefted a sigh and craned her neck from left to right as if prepping for a fight.
“We talked about this.” Sebastian’s tone shifted into a fatherly sternness Norah recognized from her youth.
“Youtalked about this.” Harper gave her dad a flippant pat on his shoulder. “I just listened. I didn’t agree to anything. Besides, you know your podcast is better when I’m involved.”
“I don’t need my nineteen-year-old daughter investin’ her life into crime-solvin’.”
Norah could tell there was more to Sebastian’s words. The way his countenance darkened made it clear something else was troubling him.
Harper turned her shoulder to Sebastian and graced Naomi with a grin. “So, about this room...”
Norah winced in remembrance, her gaze settling on a framed picture across her bedroom resting on her dresser. She went to the picture and picked it up, the silver frame cool beneath her fingers. Her thumb rubbed over Naomi’s face, her smile frozen in time at nineteen. Nineteen years of age and then she was no more, leaving behind a tsunami of memories that never lessened with time. The notion that time healed and lessened pain was a myth. Time merely mocked the absence, taunting, heralding the missing pieces that could never be replaced again by anyone. Ever. Naomi was gone, and every eternal hope or promise or effort of faith felt more like pouring alcohol on an open wound. God was on His throne, yes, but His promise that He’d walk alongside her in grief was as elusive to Norah as a fairy tale.
Naomi’s blue eyes twinkled up at her. The graduation photograph had captured her playful and adventurous spirit. Even then, at nineteen, they were as different as night and day. Naomi was blond as corn silk, lithe and athletic, outgoing, vivacious, extroverted. Norah was the dark twin, and in more ways than one. She was olive-skinned like their father, with wavy brown hair, thoughtful and cautious, friendly yet less likely to attract a crowd with her demure personality. Their mother had always teased that although they looked and acted nothing alike, theyshared the same soul. Norah believed that to be true because half of hers was missing now.
She set the picture frame back on the dresser, facedown. Looking at Naomi tonight dredged up more than just the pain of grief and the stark awareness of death. It revived the nightmares, replayed scenes from that fateful day. The lights of squad cars flashing outside the front window of 322 Predicament Avenue. Her mother’s wail, Aunt Eleanor’s strained voice, and her father’s horrified shouts. It had taken place right here in this very bedroom on the first floor, when Norah had leaped from the bed and barreled toward the door. Two police officers had caught her, grabbing her around the waist as she screamed and beat their arms. Her urge to race out into the night, to chase after Naomi’s ghost had compelled Norah.
“She’s gone, miss.” The officer’s grip was painful aroundher waist.
Norah screamed, kicked, clawed at his hands. “Letme go!” She was half his size, and he wasdetermined. She could smell his aftershave, coffee on his breath. This was what she would remember of this night. Thenight her sister’s body had been discovered. The nightthey’d confirmed that Naomi was truly and forever dead.
Norah gave her memories a stern and forceful beating into submission. She had spent almost thirteen years learning how to leave her house again. Learning how to breathe without her oxygen competing with panic. Learning how to grieve ... no. No. She had not learned that. She had barely learned to survive. Grieving was an entirely different mountain, and one she would die on.
Annoyed that she was allowing her thoughts to take her back to the dark places she had spent so many years trying to escape from, Norah reached for a sweatshirt and pulled it on over her head. Coffee and alcohol were out of the question—they did nothing to help assuage her anxiety. She needed decaffeinated tea with a splash of milk, no sugar. Her nutritionist had told her sugar was the devil when it came to a nervous system’s properfunctioning. Sugar had a negative effect on her mental health and emotional well-being. It was like pouring gasoline on a glowing ember.
Norah trudged down the hallway that was lit only by small light fixtures mounted on the wall, milk-glass sconces from the 1920s. She glanced at the grandfather clock in the entryway as she passed it. One o’clock in the morning. Sleep was elusive as usual, and Naomi felt close. So close. Norah paused in the doorway, her vision drifting to the darkness of the sitting room to her right. Once she’d thought she’d seen a shadow there, the form of a woman. Now her eyes searched the darkness in a desperate hope that a spirit would linger there. It wouldn’t be Isabelle Addington’s either. That legend was of little interest to Norah. No, she wished to be haunted by her sister. To be followed by her spirit. To feel Naomi’s breath on her neck, and the chill of the air as Naomi entered the room. She ached for the comfort of knowing Naomi was wandering beside her.
Yet there was nothing but darkness. Stillness. The ticktock of the grandfather clock. Norah forfeited her irrational hopes and padded into the darkened kitchen. A nightlight over the porcelain farm sink cast a yellow glow across the stove. She eyed the teapot but opted to fill her mug with water and pop it into the microwave. Two minutes later, she dropped a peppermint tea bag into the hot water and added a splash of milk. Making her way back toward the hallway, Norah stilled at the bottom of the stairs. She looked up toward the second floor.
Murmuring voices drifted down from the upper level—insistent, argumentative. Concerned, Norah clutched her mug of tea with both hands and climbed the first few stairs only to hesitate once more when she made out the voices of Sebastian and Harper.
