Page 38 of Defend Me

His jaw clenches and his eyes flash. “Patrick Forrester.”

“Who?” I ask again, confused. Noah’s long fingers curl around the stem of his glass, his knuckles white with tension.

“The man who killed my parents,” he growls.

I feel everything stop for the length of a heartbeat—the wind coming in through the open doors, the sounds of the city outside, the breath in my lungs. There’s something in Noah’s expression that pricks at me, and it takes me a moment to recognize it. Grief and anger. For a moment, it’s as if I’m looking in a mirror.

Noah was only four when his parents died. And yet, the expression on his face is as potent as if it happened yesterday.

“Why were you following Patrick Forrester?” I say, enunciating each word sharply. “You need to tell me the truth.”

“Because I didn’t want him killing anyone else!” Noah cries, startling me. He leaps to his feet and starts to stalk around the room with a panther-like prowl. His bicep ripples as he rakes a hand through his hair. “I used to follow him all the time. Every Sunday, I’d wait for him to leave that bar. They lock them in, youknow,” he says, turning on me swiftly. The energy radiating off him is primal. Uncontrolled. I feel like I’m seeing a side of Noah he never lets out. “The bar closes at two and then the bartender locks them in and lets the regulars sleep it off. He lets them out around six. So I would get there a little before and wait.”

I’m at a loss. “Wait for what?”

Noah’s hands clench into fists, his forearms flexing. “Wait for him to leave. And then I’d…” He swallows hard, his neck strained with tension. “I’d follow him home.”

I stare at him with wide eyes. Noah is admitting hefollowedsomeone. And not just once, but multiple times. This could show a pattern of behavior. If the prosecution finds out about this…

“Noah,” I say slowly. “This looks bad.”

“I couldn’t let him hurt anyone else,” Noah says desperately. He turns away from me and stares out at the lights of the city. “I didn’t want another little kid waking up one morning to find out their parents were gone.”

His voice cracks ever so slightly on the last word.

“But…what would following him do?” I ask. “He could still hit someone.”

“The first time, I offered to drive him,” Noah says. “He got mad. Took a swing at me. I didn’t know what else to do after that. Following him seemed like…at least I would be there if something happened? Maybe he would drive slower if he knew someone was behind him? I don’t know. It was never really logical.”

“Okay,” I say. “So what happened that morning?”

He presses his lips together. “I watched him stumble out of that bar. I’m pretty sure it was a little before six am—I usually got there around five forty-five. He got in his car. I followed him to his house and watched him go inside. I heard his wife yelling at him. I waited a minute or two to make sure he didn’t leave again. Then I drove back to Magnolia Bay and went and stood out on my dock. I knew I had to stop—I couldn’t keep tracking him like that, especially not if I was going to become a deputy. I had to…let go.” He swallows hard, like the words are causing him physical pain. And I get it. Letting go feels impossible. “I promised myself that would be the last time,” Noah says quietly. “And it was.”

He takes a long, shuddering breath and then turns to me. I see pain fracturing in his gaze, bleak and jagged.

“It never goes away,” he says. “The loss of them. It never…”

I feel a lump swell in my throat. The box with memories of Mom rattles in the back of my mind. His words pinch at something inside me. I’m not sure I even realized it, but part of mehasbeen waiting for it to go away. For the grief to get smaller and smaller until it evaporates.

“It never goes away,” I echo softly.

He holds my gaze for a long moment. I’ve never really thought about Noah and I having something in common.

He sinks down onto the couch, dropping his head in his hands. “So that’s where I was,” he says, without looking up. “About twenty-five minutes after I got home, I got a call from one of the deputies, asking me if I knew where Caden was. He told me there had been a 911 call from your dad and I was to find Caden and bring him back to the estate. I got in touch with Isla and she told me he was at her place. I drove over there to pick the two of them up, and we drove to Everton Estate together.” He finally looks up at me. “You know the rest.”

I do know the rest. I shattered that day.

Silence wraps around us, broken only by the nighttime hum of the city outside.

I suddenly remember I’m recording this interview. My training kicks into gear. Compartmentalize. Shut down emotions. Ask the next question.

“So Patrick Forrester is your alibi?” I ask. If there is someone who can testify that Noah couldn’t have been at the crime scene when Mom was killed, then we’re home free.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know if he saw me that morning. He did know I followed him. He even confronted me about itonce. Threatened to call the cops.” His mouth twists sharply. “His dad knew someone in the prosecutor’s office. The Forresters are a big name in Long Island construction. But I knew he wouldn’t say anything. Looks worse for him than it does for me.”

“How so?”

“You think his father wanted it known that his son routinely gets so drunk, he needs to be locked in at a bar?” Noah shakes his head and a lock of hair falls into his eyes. “Powerful people are all the same. They use their money and reputation to strong arm. To control the narrative.”

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