Chapter 17 - The Apartment Marisol Chose Herself
Marisol moved into her own apartment in November.
Not witness housing.
Not Rossi property.
Not Norah’s.
Hers.
Third floor.
Bad radiator.
Excellent sunlight.
Norah helped carry boxes.
Marisol found the old family photograph.
The one from Maine.
“Keep it,” Norah said.
“No.”
“Why?”
“You’re the one who carried the missing part.”
Norah stopped.
Marisol continued.
“I had memories. You had questions.”
They stood among boxes.
Norah cried first.
Marisol hugged her.
No danger.
No police.
No men outside.
Just sisters.
That night, Gabriel came for dinner.
Marisol opened the door.
“If you hurt her, I know federal prosecutors now.”
Gabriel nodded.
“Reasonable.”
Norah shouted from the kitchen, “Stop threatening guests.”
“He’s not a guest. He’s Gabriel Rossi.”
“That is still a person.”
Gabriel looked at Marisol.
“She argues professionally now.”
“I know.”
Dinner was terrible.
Marisol burned chicken.
Gabriel ate it.
Norah respected that.
Afterward, he helped wash dishes.
Marisol whispered to Norah, “He’s trained.”
“Barely.”
Gabriel heard.
“I own dishwashers.”
Norah threw a towel at him.
Marisol’s apartment represented something neither sister knew how to discuss.
A lease.
A key in her own name.
No security code provided by somebody else.
No safe-house rules.
No address chosen because a threat map said it was acceptable.
She signed the lease herself.
Then called Norah from the sidewalk and cried.
Norah came with boxes.
They argued about furniture immediately.
“You cannot put the couch there.”
“Why?”
“It blocks the radiator.”
“The radiator sounds homicidal.”
“That does not mean we suffocate it.”
“This is why people do not enjoy moving with you.”
Norah stopped.
“People?”
Marisol froze.
They both heard the word.
Friends.
Neighbors.
Coworkers.
A life Marisol had built while hidden.
Norah sat on a box.
“Tell me about them.”
Marisol did.
Tom.
A librarian named June.
An elderly neighbor who made awful chowder.
A woman from a support group who sent birthday cards under fake return addresses.
Norah listened.
Her sister’s missing years became human instead of blank.
That was painful.
Also healing.
At dinner, Gabriel arrived with wine.
Marisol inspected the bottle.
“Expensive?”
“Yes.”
“Show-off.”
“I was told not to buy the apartment.”
Norah called from the kitchen.
“That was not permission to buy vineyard-adjacent beverages.”
Gabriel removed his coat.
“No bodyguards?” Marisol asked.
“One downstairs.”
Norah appeared.
“You promised.”
“He is across the street.”
“That is downstairs with geography.”
Marisol laughed so hard she burned the chicken.
They ate it anyway.
Gabriel washed plates.
Norah dried.
Marisol watched from the doorway.
No one was in danger.
No one was interrogating anyone.
No records were being hidden.
For the Hayes sisters, ordinary domestic noise felt more miraculous than any courtroom verdict.
Marisol found work at a neighborhood bookstore two blocks from the apartment.
The owner knew part of her history and none of the sensational version.
On her first day, Norah stood outside pretending to examine a parking sign until Marisol texted:
GO HOME.
Norah replied:
I AM WALKING.
Marisol sent:
YOU HAVE BEEN WALKING IN A CIRCLE FOR TEN MINUTES.
Gabriel, waiting half a block away because Norah had asked him for a ride but not company, found the entire exchange hilarious.
“You are a terrible hypocrite.”
Norah got into the car.
“Drive.”
“Protection without permission becomes a cage.”
“I will break your nose.”
He smiled.
“Growth.”
Tom visited from Maine a month later. Norah distrusted him for approximately twenty minutes, then watched the way Marisol relaxed when he walked into the room.
That told her more than an investigation would.
Tom apologized for helping Marisol keep the secret.
Norah said, “I am still angry.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
“I also loved her.”
“Present tense?”
Tom looked at Marisol.
“Present tense.”
Marisol groaned.
“This family has too many intense people now.”
Dinner became loud.
Gabriel and Tom argued over baseball.
Norah and Marisol argued over the burnt chicken.
No one whispered about safe houses.
No one checked windows.
At one point Norah realized she had gone nearly forty minutes without thinking about danger.
She did not announce it.
She simply let the feeling stay.
A week after the dinner, Marisol invited Norah over without any reason at all.
No boxes.
No paperwork.
No anniversary.
“Why am I here?” Norah asked.
“Because sisters can have coffee without a subpoena.”
Norah sat.
Marisol handed her a chipped mug.
They talked about their mother’s terrible meatloaf.
A teacher Norah hated in ninth grade.
The time Marisol stole twenty dollars and blamed the dog.
None of it mattered to a case.
That made it precious.
Later, Tom arrived with a lamp Marisol had ordered. Gabriel happened to stop by ten minutes later with bread. The four of them argued over whether the lamp belonged near the window.
Norah realized she was watching four adults disagree about furniture instead of survival.
She almost cried.
Instead she said, “The lamp is wrong there.”
Marisol groaned.
Gabriel laughed.
May you like
Normal.
Again.
