Page 151 of Under the Lies

He’s a match and I’m a firework, his spark igniting mine.

In my room, I sort through all the stuff on the floor, looking for my onesie. Because why would it be in the dresser or in the closet? That’s too much work when the floor is readily available.

Oh, if my mother could see this now. She’d have my head.

And I know my messiness bothers Noah and his type A personality, but he takes the mess because it comes with me. Because he accepts me for how I am, not looking to change me.

Aha! Found it! Underneath a pile of schoolbooks.

I zip it on, flipping the hood up so I look like a cute and cuddly penguin. I was serious in my threat to Noah if he ever got rid of this. It’s my favorite.

I’m headed toward the stairs when I noticed the door to Noah’s office is cracked open. I pause outside of it, curiosity hooking me with her claws.

Do I go in or walk away?

The polite thing would be to walk away, but despite Noah’s smothering and my insistent asking, he hasn’t told me much on my sister’s location or the person who buried me alive.

What if the answers are in there? I inch my toe forward. It hits the door, which opens wider.

Well, would you look at that.

I slip inside. I’ll only be a minute. Two tops.

Unlike the rest of Noah’s place, his office looks lived in. Littered with empty scotch glasses and sprinkled with little trinkets. Personal items.

And it’s those items that steal my attention once I’m inside.

I walk to the shelves, looking at the little mementos he’s collected. Mostly knives and bullet casings. There are old, rare, collectible books. First editions from some of the world’s greatest authors. My mouth drops as my eyes run over the titles.

As I’m reading them, my eyes scan past a trinket that mingles with the books, only to dart right back.

Ice spikes my veins as I blink, hoping for an illusion. Hoping that my tired eyes are playing tricks on me.

It can’t be.

With a shaky hand, I reach up to grab it. Feeling the embossed filigree and cool metal in my palm, I know I’m not imagining things.

This is real.

But how?

Dread rises with my heart rate as confusion clouds my thoughts. I rub my thumb over my granddad’s pocket watch, the chain dangling between my fingers. He used it every day, kept on his person at all times. It was the only thing my granddad cherished as much as his grandkids, his art.

The pocket watch was his father’s, and his father before that.

A family heirloom we couldn’t find after he passed. My mother was in a tizzy. My father fuming, thinking that Granddad got rid of it just out of spite.

If they only knew who had it now.

But why does he have it? How did Noah get it?

The gold is polished while the scratches detailing its age are still there. And it’s still ticking. I hold it up to my ear, listening to the rhythmic tick, tock, tick, tock and feeling the sound deep in my bones. It sounds like my granddad when I used to wrap my arms around him.

It sounds like home.

My hands shake as I click the watch open. Seeing the engraving that’s always stuck with my granddad. Family first in Gaelic.

“Sayer,” Noah calls from the doorway.

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