The Composition of Nora Caverlee

By Ashlee Charlebois

Audra Leighton leaves behind a dark past in the city in exchange for quaint small-town living. Her plans of a quiet life are quickly derailed when she stumbles upon a journal left behind by the previous owner of her home.

Through the journal, she becomes engrossed in the secret life of Nora Caverlee, a young woman who went missing fifteen years ago.

Page by page, Audra develops a deep connection with Nora. Though they've never met, and fifteen years transcends them, Audra becomes obsessed with solving the case.

It isn't long before she learns that not everyone in her new town are as warm and welcoming as they seem. She finds herself the target of threats and begins to wonder if she will share the same fate as Nora.

Will she get to the bottom of what happened that fall night all those years ago, or will someone put an end to her novice investigation?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashlee Charlebois
• Release date: Apr 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223510024

Book preview

Chapter One

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Stepping out onto the driveway, I take a breath and feel a sting of uncertainty and unfamiliarity. An aroma hits me, similar to a box of musty books long forgotten in a sticky basement. Along with the empty roads and worn-down shops, this place even smells old.

Reservations which were already crowding my thoughts go into overdrive. Maybe it was the three-hour trek, watching the concrete jungle that has been home to me for thirty years turn into cornfields, gravel roads, and nothingness.

Perhaps it’s Sam’s voice in my head, taunting me to go back to him. Of course, it could just be the classic fear of the unknown. Fear of change.

I chose this town based off the stories my grandmother would tell me growing up. She would call me almost nightly and tell me about her childhood in place of a bedtime story. The way she described it made it sound like it belonged in a fairy tale.

The intimacy of the close-knit community and the quirky traditions: carnivals, art walks, and mini pig races. Gram would always say, In the city, you’re just another person in the crowd, but in Prairie Grove, you are the crowd.

She’d frequently speak of the hospitality, and how everyone knew everyone. Must be what they were lulling on about in the Cheers theme song. 

Shortly after Sam was taken away in cuffs and the bruises had found their home on my face, I scoured online for home auctions. When I saw the charming yellow cape cod in Prairie Grove, I took it as a sign from Gram. I knew going the traditional home buying route wasn’t for me this time around. Such a lengthy process which would provide too much opportunity for me to back out. Sink or swim.

I didn’t want to deal with the headache of a bidding war, negotiating, home inspection, or any of the other mess Sam and I went through to purchase our studio condo. We thought we’d get it for a steal, with it being on the first floor. But the booming market, as well as our realtor, taunted us to put in an offer far above asking price. This time, I was surprised with how smoothly the transaction went. The deed was in my hand within days, before I’d even seen the interior. But now the inevitable and daunting surprise of opening the door for the first time is starting to settle in.

Along with leaving behind my first real estate purchase, I am leaving my career at one of the largest corporate offices in the Midwest. My career path wasn’t something I had envisioned for myself. It was just one of those things I kind of fell into when my prerequisites were coming close to completion, and I needed to pick a major fast.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed my work. The pharmaceutical company I was employed under provided me the fast-paced type of day I needed to keep my mind off of what was waiting for me at home. At work I was strong, I was independent, and I mattered. Polar opposite of the feelings Sam instilled for the three years we were together.

I'm unsure of who I hate more, him for what he did, or me for allowing it. Being in a domestic violence situation is sort of like gaining weight. It starts slow, so slow that you don’t really pay any mind to it.

Looking back, of course I now see the warning signs. The comments on my attire-I took it as a classic case of jealousy. I thought it was cute and sweet. The constant reassurance he needed that I still loved him-I took it as him never forgiving his parents for placing him in foster care when he was eight. I always made excuses for him and talked myself out of the idea that he was really doing anything wrong, just like the story goes in most domestic abuse cases.

He drove an even bigger wedge in my relationship with my mother than there already was. Soon after he and I met, I stopped seeing my mom for the holidays or any other occasion. Sam was convinced my mother hated him and she was pushing me to break up with him, neither of which were true. The only time they met was so brief, I’m not sure she had long enough to form an opinion at all.

The first year was mostly what I diagnosed as petty differences. After our first anniversary, there was the constant yelling, name calling, and threats. And of course, the pushing and eventual punches ensued. By that time, I was too scared to put an end to the relationship. You know what they say about hindsight though.

November 17, 2017 was the day he proposed. I was sitting in my charcoal grey chaise lounge chair with my laptop, reviewing my spreadsheets and calendar for the following month. Sam emerged from the kitchen, newly poured bourbon in hand, when he walked past me and dropped the black velvet box in my lap.

We’re finally getting married, he said bluntly as he plopped onto the couch, ice cubes clunking in his glass creating a symphonic melody. I opened the box and stared down at the symbol of eternity. He handed me a weight of only a few ounces and yet it felt like an anchor. My eyes glazed over as I realized marriage was only another way of controlling me. Being Sam’s girlfriend was one thing, but marriage was a whole new game.

Christ Audra, don’t do that crying bullshit, you knew I’d propose eventually. Just smile and say thank you for wasting my bonus on that ring and knock the crying off. This is exactly why I gave it to you in private. As if the tears were from enthusiasm and pure joy.

I started wondering how long it would be til’ death do us part. I started imagining my forever with Sam and all it entailed. I thought over the past few years of my life, and I realized that he had it in him to kill me. Maybe not next year, maybe not even in the next five. But I knew he could and more than likely would. Every year he grew harsher and more paranoid.

It was the end of Sam’s fiscal year, so he was home for two weeks using up the vacation hours he had accumulated. He was only on day four and I knew I couldn’t wait a week and a half for his return to work so I could safely pack my bags and leave. And I knew for certain he wouldn’t let me up and leave quietly.

With no family and no friends I could call to help, I could only think to call emergency services. He heard the phone call I rushed to make when he went to the bathroom. As the police were on their way, he got in one last beating, one for the books. Even as the sirens grew louder, even as the red and blue lights danced upon our walls, he was relentless. They had to pull him off me.

My heart rate increases, and I realize I’m perspiring. Trying to shake the memory, I slowly head towards the porch. I close my eyes as I twist the key to the front door of my new home, my new life. Reluctantly squinting one eye open, I let out a breath of relief as I push the mahogany door, it lets out a low moan as it swings. I was half expecting phallic spray-painted images on the walls, torn up floors, and gaping holes in the ceiling with a splash of mold in the mix for some pizazz.

Instead, I find a cozy sized living room with a faded brick fireplace in the corner and dark worn wood flooring. The stairwell to my left shares the same farmhouse finish as the floor. I slowly take in the rest of the house. Galley kitchen with old cream-colored appliances and a breakfast nook overlooking a huge window that sees to the backyard.

Through the window I see mature trees, an old distressed white porch swing, and a set of stones encircling a small fire pit. From the kitchen, a short hallway connects to two bedrooms and a bathroom with a clawfoot tub atop white and black checkered tile.

I head upstairs to the loft that is almost the size of my condo alone. A closet with mirror doors slides open to reveal a set of narrow steps leading up to the attic. The steps creak and I hope that the old woodwork can support my weight.

When I reach the top, I am met with all the things that can be expected in an attic. Rodent droppings, cobwebs, and chunks of insulation falling off the walls. I walk along my new attic and begin to wonder what I am going to do with all the space this home provides. Holding 1100 square feet, it feels like a mansion to me compared to my small condo.

As I imagine filling rooms with my two suitcases and three cardboard boxes worth of belongings that are stuffed into my Accord, there’s a trip in my step. I glance down and see one of the floorboards slightly raised up on one side. Not enough to notice when peering over the room, but enough to catch the front of my sandal and demand my attention.

I gently try picking up the board and it willingly gives itself to my pull. Below is one of those secret hiding spots that you see kids use in movies, but have never really seen to exist in reality. Those kids who stash away baseball cards, their allowance, or any other extensive collection.

Inside the small chamber underneath the loose floor board, there is only one item tucked away. One thing left behind by whoever abandoned this place. A composition notebook. The kind that you needed for chemistry class to record your lab results, with the cover that looks like TV static.

The spine faces me and as I pick it up, I turn it over to glance at the cover. I almost keel over when I see the name of its owner.

Nora Caverlee.

January 3rd, 2003

So, hello journal. You are my New Year's resolution, my new hobby. The creative writing class I took last semester sparked a small interest into writing. I bought this notebook to write short stories, but after a semester full of digging into the corners of my mind for anything mildly creative or interesting, I ran dry. So I just decided to keep a journal instead.  I guess I should maybe tell you about myself? Not sure how this goes. So hi again, I’m Nora Caverlee. Man, this feels so awkward, no one is going to read this. Anyways, I’m 20 years old. I work at Moote’s Diner and I have been since they finally let me at 15. As a kid, I would go in every year on my birthday for my free piece of strawberry shortcake. When I turned 11 I started pestering them to let me work for any spare change they were willing to give me. My parents suck, and even as a toddler I think I realized that they sucked. Maybe even straight out of my amniotic sac, who knows what went on in my little baby brain. Dad was especially bad, he threw the fists. Actually, now that I’m writing it, maybe Mom was worse. The blind eye, silently letting the horror show go on. The moment it was legal to do so, I wanted to move out, and I did. I live in the smallest town in the world it feels like, it’s very cheap to buy a house, not that there are any apartment buildings in Prairie Grove anyway! This 1.5 story cod I have is all mine. I’ve been asking Phoenix to move in since I got the place. He says his mama says he’s too young. I think he is a grown man and should make his own decisions, but I suppose with her paying his tuition and all, he doesn’t have much choice. Phoenix and I use the date of the first day of our sophomore year as our anniversary date, but I remember dreaming of our wedding in kindergarten. 

Chapter Two

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I do a quick search of her name; I need to be certain that this journal belongs to who I think it does. Before I’m even through typing out the four letters that make up her first name, I know it’s useless. Hearing of her disappearance is a vivid memory of mine. It was one of the last times I saw Gram.

With no surprise, an overwhelming list of news articles bombard my screen. Small Town Woman Disappears, Nora Caverlee, Missing 20-Year-old from Prairie Grove, and so many more. The photos of her stare back at me hauntingly. Our features are almost unnervingly similar.

I read over a few articles. No prime suspects and no evidence of foul play, it’s as if she had vanished. One day she was here existing, and a moment later she was just gone. And here I am, in her house.

My chest constricts, it feels as though someone is squeezing my heart, tightening their fist around it. What if she was murdered here in this house? I grow increasingly agitated with myself that I didn’t do any research on the  previous owners of the house.

When I was searching through the auction site, I had the filters sort the newest postings first. The house couldn’t have been listed online for more than a day or two. Who was paying the mortgage for the house for fifteen years? Certainly, the bank would have done something with the property well before even a year passed.

How’s and what if’s race through my mind like Seabiscuit, and then I think back to that day I went to visit Gram and Aunt Ali. My grandmother was too headstrong to even entertain the idea of Assisted Living. My Aunt is a Nurse Practitioner with an in-law suite in her basement, so when the Alzheimer’s started progressing, she took Gram in with no hesitation. 

My mother worked long hours at a law firm, if I needed a ride somewhere I was pretty much SOL. Especially fifty miles out of the city. At fifteen, I could almost smell the plastic from my license printing at the DMV. I was eager to start driving on my own, as most fifteen-year-olds are.

Gram and I always talked about the weekend long sleepovers we would have after becoming street legal. We were going to load up on crap food and binge watch The X-Files. Five days shy of my birthday, Aunt Ali paid me a phone call that shattered my heart. The first place I drove myself as a licensed driver was her funeral. My mother had to work.

I roll my eyes around to try to suck the tears back in before they have a chance to make their escape and descend down my face. I try to remember every detail of what Gram told me about Nora.

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Hey old woman, I joked. I missed you.

Audra, come here my sweetness. It’s been so long. That damn mother of yours can’t be bothered to bring you here more than once every couple of months, huh? she scoffed. I let out a small chuckle, Well you know how it is, always buried in her work, I said, half trying to defend my mother, but not even convincing myself of the lame excuse.

Luckily Gram dropped it. Neither of us enjoyed wasting the little time we had together on speaking about the absence that was my mother. I think we talked about how much she hated Aunt Ali’s cats and dogs. The cats would knock over her prescription bottles and the dogs would bark at every whisper of the wind. We must have talked about school, boys, prom, and our favorite murder mystery shows.

I almost forgot to bring this up, but a few weeks ago I heard from Doris, an old friend of mine. She had the most upsetting news. Remember when I stayed in Prairie Grove last summer with my friend after her husband passed away? That’s Doris. Anyways, well, when I was there, we had coffee every day at our favorite diner. I think it was called Mule’s or Moose’s or whatever the hell the name was.

In my head, I acknowledged the fact that forgetting the name of the diner from her hometown was more than likely a result of her Alzheimer’s. Luckily it was still in the early stage, and most of Gram was still there. Bits and pieces were beginning to fade, which was still difficult for me to accept.

Anyway, this young lady was working her boots off waitressing. Always so pleasant she was. Reminded me a lot of you, Gram winked at me, smiled softly, and continued. "Beautiful girl, very tall and with dark eyes and light hair, pretty name too, Nora. I knew of her parents. Her father is a nasty drunk and her mother usually keeps to herself. Well, when my friend called, she let me know the girl went missing. Just twenty years old. Such a shame. Such an awful, awful shame.

Some people I guess are thinking she ran away but I feel it in my heart that she just wouldn’t have done that. But then again, Prairie Grove isn’t a place where anything bad happens. Not besides a set of elementary boys stealing gum from the corner mart at least. I’m just telling you this because I worry. Every day the world is turning nastier.

I remember listening attentively and acknowledging her concerns. Her warnings didn’t fall on deaf ears but at the same time, I didn’t take it with a grain of salt. More like the whole block.

Bringing myself back to reality, I make my way back down the questionable closet steps, and then those of the main stairwell. I set the journal down on the faded green Formica kitchen counter and decide to distract myself with online furniture shopping.

Completely unwilling to accept the events that have transpired in the exceptionally short time that I’ve been here, I scour La-Z-Boy.com and choose a set from the comfortably casual collection in a warm taupe color. The confirmation page informs me it should arrive within two days.

I finish my shopping spree with Ikea, and I order a new jet-black bedroom set and other miscellaneous home decor, as well as a few office furnishings for the loft.

I glance out of my bay window and realize dusk is beginning to emerge. I step out barefoot into the crisp fall air, the icy wind carrying burnt auburn and jaded yellow leaves. I quickly gather my few belongings as my feet are going numb.

This car is the first and only car I’ve owned. It was an unexpected surprise from my mother on the day I got my license. It brought a little bit of light into the darkest time of my life. She purchased it brand new and gifted it to me on two conditions: I kept my grades up, and that I continue working part time to pay for gas and the insurance. Living in the city, my main means of transport were still mostly subways and taxis. Even fifteen years later, the odometer has barely ticked one hundred thousand miles.

By the time I’m done unpacking and finish blowing up my air mattress, it’s a bit past midnight. My first day at work is tomorrow, or rather today, bright and early. Normally, you’d be hard pressed catching me awake after nine-thirty, but I can’t keep myself from reaching for that journal.

January 4th, 2003

Hi, I’m back again. So....more fun facts.  I’m 6’1, and yes I am aware that I am tall. Years of dim-witted bullies beat you to the punch on that one. I have thick blonde hair and brown eyes. A witch’s nose, although Phoenix swears up and down I am over exaggerating with that description. Moving on, top 5 bands: Puddle of Mudd, Good Charlotte, The Strokes, The Used, and my guilty pleasure Britney Spears. Favorite color: purple. What I want to be when I ‘grow up’, not a damn clue. I can only afford to take one class at a time, so I don’t need to focus on choosing a major yet. My Intro to Psychology class begins in a few days, and I’m excited to go back to school. I love being busy. Between waitressing, school, and Phoenix I barely have any down time and that’s exactly how I like it. Let’s see, my favorite person: my boss. I’m convinced Mrs. Moote is an angel, sent to me as an apology for the shit show I got with my parents. Blood is thicker than water is the largest widespread lie. As a small child, I would often ask her for leftover scraps as a treat for my ‘dog’ when my dad was on one of his liver abuse benders. That worked well and fine for a few months. Until one day when my father and I walked by the diner on our way to the hardware store. My mother insisted he get some drywall to fix the patches he punched in the wall the previous day. When Mrs. Moote watched us passing through the window, she came out and happily greeted us. She offered us to come inside so she could throw a few leftovers in a to go bag for our dog. I was very young, so I can’t recall the exact words my dad used, but I believe it was something along the lines of We don’t have a dog, you crazy old witch. The next time I saw her I had to beg her not to tell the sheriff.  I told her my parents did feed me, it was just the days my mom was at work past her normal shift. Sometimes she wouldn’t get home until far after my bedtime. And there wasn’t a snowball's chance in hell you’d see my dad in the kitchen for anything but grabbing a beer. Which was mostly the truth then. It wasn’t until a couple years later that dad took control of the money, that’s when my stomach really started to rumble. But anyhow, that was around the time the diner became a second home to me, a better home. I’d get hot meals and help with homework. Mr. and Mrs. Moote have