Page 38 of Someone Knows

The five-minute drive is nerve-racking. I consider calling Ivy on the way, telling her I’m about to go intohishouse. But her husband would probably ask who was on the phone, and then there would be a digital footprint connectingus since I don’t have my prepaid with me. I can’t be that sloppy, not now. Not after all these years.

My palms are a sweaty mess as we turn down Glenn Oak Drive. It’s a wide road, with bald cypress trees lining both sides of the paved blacktop. Ghostly gray tendrils of Spanish moss drape from one side of the road to the other, creating the feeling of going through a tunnel. It’s pretty during the day, eerie as hell at night. Especially when it’s leading to a place I’m dreading stepping into almost as much as I can’t wait.

We pull into the driveway, Noah’s red pickup first, me behind him. I look up at the familiar house and white-knuckle the steering wheel. It looks exactly the same as I remember.

Calm down, Elizabeth. He’s not in there.

He’s dead.

He’s fucking dead.

Noah walks to my car and opens the door, extends a hand to help me out. I take a deep breath before unfolding.

“Don’t look at the outside,” he says. “That’ll be the last thing I get to.”

Once I’m standing, he doesn’t let go of my hand. Instead, he laces our fingers together for the walk to the front door. I’mnota hand-holder. But I don’t pull away because there’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll pass out before we get to the door. My breaths are coming in short, shallow spurts, and I’m lightheaded and nauseous.

Noah creaks open the rickety door, reaches inside, and flicks on the lights. He extends a hand for me to walk in ahead of him.

“Ladies first . . .”

I manage to put one foot in front of the other. I’m not sure what I expected—dark, gloomy rooms packed with musty furniture covered by sheets, cobwebs hanging all over—but it’s nothing like I’d imagined. The first room we enter is bright and airy, with high ceilings, walls painted creamyoff-white, and wide-plank oak flooring. A sweeping staircase is off to one side, and there’s even a big, rustic-looking chandelier hanging in the center.

“It used to have eight-foot ceilings, but I opened up the first and second floor to make it one. Probably going to regret it when the August air-conditioning bills start rolling in, but I like the way it makes me feel when I enter.”

“It’s really beautiful.”

He points up to the ceiling, to a giant skylight I hadn’t noticed. “During the day, I get a ton of sun, so I don’t need to turn on any lights at least.” Noah puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me to the next rooms. There’s a big kitchen with a new double island, a laundry room, formal dining room, and two bedrooms. Every room is in a different phase of construction. Upstairs, he shows me two more bedrooms, one of which is the only room not under construction so far. It’s where he sleeps, but it has only a basic frame holding a mattress because he put all the other furniture in storage.

Noah continues with the tour, opening the last door on the left and flipping the light switch. “This is the only other room I haven’t started. It was my father’s office.”

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line three of the walls. I walk over to the nearest one and run my finger along some of the old, leather-bound spines.

“He was a collector. My mother always said if anyone breaks in, let them take her jewelry, just leave the books. Apparently, they’re worth more.”

I scan the shelves, freezing when I come to an area of framed photos. My heart might even stop beating for a few seconds when I see the eyes. They’re cold, distant, even though he’s looking straight at the camera. Noah walks over, stands close behind me. He lifts his chin and gestures to the middle frame. “I was three in that photo.”

I hadn’t even noticed the little boy holding up a fish, too stuck on the evil monster standingnext to him.

“Maybe you knew my father,” he says. “Damon Sawyer? He taught English at the high school.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“You sure? Mr. Sawyer? It’s not a very big school. The kids usually know all the teachers, even the ones they don’t have.”

I feel him watching me now. It takes everything I have to keep my composure. It was stupid to say I didn’t know him.Of courseI’d know him. Everyone knows everyone in this Podunk town, especially a teacher whodied. But self-preservation answered before I could think it through, as if saying I’d never heard the name would make it true. But I’m stuck now, so I need to go with it. I shake my head again. “The name isn’t familiar.”

“What year did you graduate?”

I swallow, trying to think of a way around this. “Two thousand and five.”

Noah reaches to the shelf, picks up a frame that’s sitting face down. He turns it over and hands it to me. A giant close-up of Mr. Sawyer’s face stares at me. For a moment, I think I might vomit.

“Are yousurehe doesn’t look familiar? Two thousand and five is the year he died . . .”

CHAPTER

17

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