Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Are you okay, Elizabeth?”
I look away and shake my head. “It’s just . . . I’m sorry. We’re moving too fast again.”
“I was just following your lead . . .”
“I know you were. And I’m sorry. I don’t mean to play hot and cold with you.”
Noah rakes a hand through his hair and blows out a deep breath. “It’s fine. I understand. How about we sit down? Just relax. Want a beer?”
I nod, and he disappears into the kitchen. He comes back a moment later with a smile and passes me a bottle of beer. But my body feels tight now, anxious, like a snake coiled to strike. I just don’t know what or who to strike at.
“So, darlin’. Um . . .” He gulps the beer, gives me a kind smile, and I start to think I should have just kept things going. Talking is dangerous when I’m not in the right frame of mind. “Why’d you move up north, anyway?” he asks.
I stare too hard at the label on my beer. It’s Shiner Bock, the golden sticker peeling at the corner. “Family problems. What else?” I take a sip and wince at the taste. I don’t really like beer, and right now I could use something stronger than this stuff.
“Yeah. I understand that.” He sighs heavily. I wait for him to go on, elaborate on exactly how he understands, but he doesn’t, and I take a long moment to just look at him. Even now, at this moment, when I’m questioning my own sanity for being here, there’s something about Noah I like. His easy way of going about things, his calm demeanor—I can feel it. Like it’s seeping into me, making me calmer, too. I no longer feel like I want to bolt, escape him as fast as I can. I feel a pull toward him—physically and otherwise. But I need to keep focus, remember the conversation I had with Ivy. I’m here to get close to this man and get to the truth. Maybe I can still turn this night around.
“Did your mom ever remarry?” I ask.
He snorts before taking another swig of beer. “Nope. My mother, God rest her soul, was devoted to my father. She never got over him dying.”
“That . . . that must’ve been hard.”
Noah goes quiet for a long time. Eventually, he nods and asks, “Your parents still together?”
I look away, considering. “No. My father left when I was young. It was just me and my mom growing up. She’s an alcoholic.” I pause, looking at him while he’s busy staring at his own beer bottle. He seems reflective, like maybe I hit on something he’s familiar with, so I keep talking. “I don’t really remember my dad. He just took off one day. And Mom—I’d get home from school, and she’d already be passed out. Those were the good nights. Because if she was passed out, I wasn’t left alone all night while she went with the new ‘uncle’ of the week.”
I never talk about this stuff. It’s been bottled up tight for so many years that I didn’t think the rusty cap would ever come off. And yet the words come too easily from my mouth. Like now that the top has been twisted off, now that someone’s finally listening, the memories can’t rush out fast enough.
“Well . . . that must have been hard, too,” Noah says when the silence has stretched too long. He shifts uncomfortably. “I had one good parent, at least.”
I blink, wait for more. It doesn’t come.
“Which one?” I ask, my voice soft. Like I care. And maybe, oddly, I do a little.
Noah doesn’t answer. Just slaps a hand to his thigh and rises to his feet. “Gotta hit the head.” He leaves the room, and I let out a breath held high in my chest. My gaze moves around, locking on the large, wooden desk that sits beneath the only window. Before I consider my actions, I’m at the desk, yanking out one drawer after another, searching for . . . I don’t know.
Anything.
A smoking gun, perhaps?
I have to be quiet, have to be fast.
“Elizabeth?” Noah’s voice interrupts. He’s a few feet away, coming down the hall already. “You want another beer?” I slide the last drawer shut and mentally search for an excuse to be standing here because I don’t have time to move. In a panic, I yank my phone from my pocket, press it to my ear, and nod along like someone’s talking to me.
“I understand,” I say as he steps into the office. He stops, stares at me, eyes full of concern.
The hospital? he mouths. I nod and turn away, focused on the make-believe conversation while I stare out the window.
Before I pretend to disconnect, I give myself a second to consider the whole evening. Noah doesn’t seem to be questioning why I’m standing at the desk, doesn’t seem to know I just rifled through it. But it’s yet another too-close-for-comfort moment, and I think it’s best I leave—in a hurry, not leaving room for questions. Or room to wind up in another lip-lock, which I desperately want to do and think is an awful idea. Especially here, in Mr. Sawyer’s house . . .