The wooden porch step creaked with protest as Nolan's knee bounced against it. He attempted to still his leg, but it refused to settle. His fingers, too—they insisted on curling, uncurling, tapping aimlessly against his jeans, his phone, the porch—anything.

He checked his phone. 6:47.

Thirteen minutes until Willow would arrive.

He glanced over his shoulder. Greg had promised to keep an ear out for movement, but Nolan was convinced that at any moment, Nora would throw open the front door and discover what he was doing.

His foot bounced faster. How would they—Willow, Nathan, Rachel—all react when he told them? More importantly, would they actually be able to help? He hoped so. Prayed so.

Prayed. He still couldn't believe the word had entered his vocabulary.

The idea of praying was still a little ludicrous. To ask for help from someone he didn't trust...

But...a part of him wanted to. Trust Him. As apprehensive as he'd been to give God credit, he'd seen the good He had done. Had felt it.

But...

His cereal bowl slipping from his hands. Nora crying, afraid to go home.

His own voice drifted through his head. "You're angry and you need someone to blame."

6:48.

Wheels on pavement wrenched his head upward. They were early. He stood, wincing against his tightening chest, and raced over to where Nathan pulled the car to a stop.

"Nora still asleep?" Willow asked as he shut the door and buckled his seat.

"Yeah," he said.

"Okay." Willow twisted around in the passenger seat. "Tell us everything."

Nathan's worried eyes met his in the rearview mirror.

Nolan gave himself one moment to consider the ramifications. To apologize. "I walked her home around eight," he began.

The story spilled out of him—even the parts that might have been unnecessary. He told them about stopping on the porch. About the kiss, which Willow raised her eyebrows at, but otherwise didn't react to. The way Isaac opened the door—kind on the surface, but something lurking beneath. Nolan's starting down the driveway, only to hear Isaac's snarling voice through the walls.

How he'd watched...

"He has her convinced this is all her fault," he finished. "That she killed her mom."

Willow faced forward. When she finally turned around, her eyes glistened with tears. "I had no idea," she breathed. "How could I have no idea?"

Nathan squeezed her shoulder. His other hand clutched the wheel, taut, knuckles whitening.

"He'd get snappy sometimes, sure...but...oh g—this is why I never slept...but..." She closed her eyes and refaced the windshield. There was a small sniff.

"Everything's going to be okay," Nathan said, giving her shoulder a final squeeze before returning it to the wheel. "Now we know, and we can get her somewhere safe."

Relief loosened a few knots in his stomach.

"Should we call the police?" she asked. "That's who you're supposed to call, right? For...for something like this?"

Nolan leaned forward.

"Once we tell Rachel, I'll make sure the authorities are informed. They'll lead us in the right direction." His eyes found Nolan in the rearview mirror. "I know she asked you not to tell anyone, but you did the right thing."

He nodded. Nathan was right. So why did he feel so shitty?

✝

Rachel's house was a small, but cozy cape tucked away in an Ann Arbor neighborhood. Nathan pulled into the two-car driveway, and Nolan contemplated throwing up in the small batch of flowers sitting at the foot of the front porch.

Willow unbuckled, and he forced himself to do the same. His body was heavy—every step, shift of his arm, turn of his head, a labor that sucked out the little energy he had left.

"It'll be okay," Willow said, at his side.

He nodded.

They crowded on the porch. Nathan opened the screen door and knocked on the front door. The red paint was chipped near the window pane.

Nolan's fingers twitched at his sides. He curled his hands into fists.

Nathan knocked again, louder this time.

"I'm coming, I promise!" a cheerful voice called from within.

Nolan's stomach dropped.

The door opened, and Rachel—still in pajamas and lazily holding a copy of the newspaper—beamed. "Hey!" she said. "This is a weird, but cool surprise. Come on in."

Nolan stepped into a quaint kitchen. Clean, with floral wallpaper.

"What can I do for you guys?" she asked, heading for the cabinets. She grinned at Nolan and Willow. "And what are you two doing awake? Isn't it like three AM, teen time?"

When no one so much as smiled, Rachel hesitated, a hand on one of the cabinet handles. "Everything okay?" she asked.

Nolan should say something, but his mouth remained firmly shut.

"We need to talk to you about Nora," Nathan said. He patted Nolan's shoulder as he passed by. It's okay.

Rachel's eyebrows creased. "What's up?"

"Why don't you sit down?"

She looked tempted to say how about no? but nodded and led them to the living room, a space complete with two couches, and a plush chair facing a fireplace. Rachel claimed one of the couches, and Nolan and Willow took the other. Nathan eased into the chair, his hands folded politely in his lap. Only his frown betrayed that something was wrong.

"Nate," Rachel said. Her painted fingernails tapped against her knees. "Is Nora okay?"

"She'll be fine," Nathan said.

"So, she isn't right now. That's what you're saying."

He pressed his lips together. Searching for the right words? "Nolan came to us last night asking for help," he said. Rachel glanced at Nolan, and Nolan forced himself to meet her gaze. "He and Nora had spent the day together, and he walked her home."

"Okay..."

"When Nolan started to leave, he heard yelling. When he turned...Isaac, he..."

"He what?" Rachel frowned. Not getting it.

"He hit her, Rachel."

Her jaw gave way. She shook her head, like a lens struggling to focus. "That doesn't...what?"

"There's a bruise covering her cheek." Nolan had found his voice. "It's in the shape of his hand."

She continued to shake her head.

"From what Nora told Nolan, the hitting is new. But he's been cruel to her since she was young."

The head-shaking stopped. She stood.

"Rachel?" Willow asked as Rachel started toward the kitchen. "Where are you going?"

"To kill my brother." She said it matter-of-factly, like she was going to the grocery store.

Nolan and the others scrambled after her. She already had her hand on the door handle, ready to wrench open the door, when Nathan caught her shoulder. "Rachel."

"Let me go, Nate."

"I know this is hard, but we have to handle this calmly," he said.

"I am calm."

By all appearances, she was.

"For Nora," Nathan emphasized.

Her grip tightened on the handle. Nolan held his breath. Then, her grip loosened—released entirely. "Fine," she said. "But after we're done being calm, can I kill him?"

"I'm afraid I can't recommend it."

She started to smile, but dropped it. "How are you doing with all of this?" she asked, attention swerving to Nolan.

He shrugged. "Fine."

"Liar." She grimaced and wrapped her arms around him. "Now, she's staying with you?"

He nodded.

"Okay. Let's go."

She released him, and his stomach wrenched. I'm so sorry, Nora.

While Nolan and the others piled back into Nathan's car, Rachel hopped into her own. Despite the front seat being free, Willow sank into the space next to his. He smiled wanly and set his head against the headrest, following the freshly mowed grass, then the sidewalk, as Nathan pulled out of the driveway and started down the street.

Nora would understand. She'd always been so open-minded. She'd be upset at first, but....

"You promise?"

He winced.

"Hey."

He turned. Willow frowned.

"It took a lot of courage for you to do this," she said. "Thank you."

He shrugged. Dirt scattered the floor's rug.

"No matter what happens," she said, "just know she cares about you. Really cares about you."

He was back on Nora's porch, just moments before the door opened. "Will she forgive me?" He could barely get the words out—they forced their way through his throat at barely over a whisper.

Willow fell silent, and he wrenched his gaze from the floor. I'm going to lose her.

This was too much to take.

"It'll take some time," she said finally. "But I'm sure she will."

Her confidence was feeble, her desperation to believe her words bleeding into her voice. He turned back to the window.