Page 28 of Someone Knows

Those eyes.I have no idea how I didn’t recognize them immediately. Noah Sawyer, hisson. . . just happening upon me at a bar tonight? I chew my lip, roll over, gaze out the dirty, tobacco-stained window. A wiry tree climbs toward the sky, two birds perched there, chirping at each other. My vision goes out of focus as I stare. This is a small town. There are only a couple bars. Maybe . . .

Maybe it was a coincidence. The other men there knew him, called him by name. The bartender knew him, too, even his drink. So it’s not like it was his first time there.

Of course, he walked up tome, bought me drinks, took areal stronginterest.

Maybe he’d have done that for any half-attractive woman who was new in town. No doubt he’s a flirt, with plenty of confidence, oodles of swagger. I swallow, stop myself from thinking of him likethat—the way his lips fluttered over my ear, the look of excitement on his face when I walked into the men’s room.

I slept with Noah Sawyer.

I was about to go home with Mr.Sawyer’s son.

The son of the man I killed . . .

It’s revolting to think that monster even had a child.

But what if Noahknows?

What if Noah isHannah?

He said he was a writer . . .

I blow out a deep breath and roll off the side of the bed. I can’t lie here and do this anymore. I’m still nowhere near ready to sleep after what almost happened earlier. It feels like I might be awake for days, I’m so wired. The drinks I had at the bar have long worn off. Finding out Noah’s last name shocked me into instant sobriety.

My gaze finds my suitcase. My flight home is Saturday, but maybe I can get one tomorrow instead. Or today, rather, since it’s long past midnight. I hate to leave my mother right now, but I need to be back at work next week anyway, and really, she doesn’t want me here. Plus, I’m no use to her when I’m on edge, spiraling out of control. I’m paranoid, sure everyone’s involved in whatever the hell is going on—Noah, Mom, the freaking priest, Ivy, even Chief Unger. If I stay here much longer, half the town will be suspects. I should get a list going. I could title it “People I Think Want to Ruin My Life.”

I need coffee. Coffee will wake me up from this awful foggy haze I’m stuck in.

I walk out into the kitchen, and the smell hits me. Sour, mildew,decay—both of this house and of human life.My mother is dying.I swallow and lift the old silver percolator that my mom has used since I was a kid, and a rush of emotion hits me again. It seems to come in waves. I haven’t cried yet. And I think it’s because none of my feelings are pure. Sadness about my mother’s health is mixed with resentment. Guilt for not being here is mingled with anger that she doesn’t want me to be. It’s exhausting, yet I can’t sleep.

I scoop grinds into the old pot, fill it with water, look around as I wait for it to percolate. The floors have a layer of dirt on them, and the sink is stainedwith yellow scum. Both need bleach and scrubbing. Maybe I can get someone in here to help Mom. She’d probably say it’s a waste of money, that she doesn’tneedmy help. Perhaps I could ask the church to say it’s their doing, and give them the money for a cleaning company and an aide. I have a decent amount in my savings. Though . . . that would mean talking to Father Preston, wouldn’t it? Random thoughts rattle around in my head as the smell of coffee floats through the kitchen.

A few minutes later, with my caffeine in hand, I go back to the tiny bedroom. I toss my suitcase on the bed, pull out a clean outfit, and begin folding shirts and pants, shoving everything inside. I’ll take a quick shower, and then I can pack my toiletries and call the airline—

A thud stops me.

I let a shoe fall from my fingers and turn to look over my shoulder and listen. Silence.

“Mom?” I call.

Nothing.

I almost ignore it—probably she drank herself to sleep, and the bottle tumbled from her hand. But it was too loud of a clunk, bigger than a bottle.

“Mom?” This time, I walk into the hall so my voice carries. Again, there’s no response. My heart begins to pound faster in my chest. “Hello?” I step hesitantly back toward the kitchen. I see her foot first. A white cotton sock with a hole in the heel, worn to nothing.

“Mom!” I’m on my knees beside her in the next second, touching her gray face, fingers feeling for a pulse. At first, there’s nothing—just hot, fevered skin—at least she’s not ice-cold—but then I find it. A slow, steadythump, thump, thump. Her eyes are shut; her mouth gapes open. Her hand twitches, at least a sign of life.

She . . . fell? I feel my forehead wrinkle in a frown. She’s probably drunk. Of course she fell. Then I see the blood trickling from the back of herhead.Shit.

I scramble back to the bedroom, search all over for my cell phone before finding it in my pocket, and dial 911.

I give the operator the address, tell her my mother fell, that she’s unconscious and bleeding. The rest is a blur, but she makes me stay on the line while I wait fifteen long minutes, holding my mother’s hand, afraid to move her—what if she has spinal cord damage? I remember aGrey’s Anatomywhere I swear they saidneverto move someone if you’re not sure. After much too long, there’s a knock at the door, then two people sweep in, both men. They ask questions in calm voices, and somehow I manage to match the tone with my responses, when inside, I’m anything but calm.

“My mother fell,” I tell them, and I explain what little I know. That I got coffee, that I was packing, that I heard athud. . . “God, what if I weren’t here?” My eyes, wide with emotion, meet the gaze of the taller paramedic.

He says something like, “We’ll take good care of her,” totally ignoring my question as he locks the stretcher on wheels into place waist-high. “We’re going to bring her to Memorial Hospital. Do you know the way?”

I shake my head. “I don’t remember. I haven’t lived here in a long time.”

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