Page 63 of Someone Knows

For a few precious seconds, I pretendNoahis the reason I’m here. He may as well be.

“How did you know where to find me?” he asks.

“When we were at the bar before, you toldme where you go to clear your head. Mine needs some clearing today, too. Hope you don’t mind I crashed your party.”

Noah takes the beer back, takes another long swallow, and we both stare out at the murky water. I can understand why this is a place that can clear his mind. There’s a unique stillness out here that you can’t find anywhere else—especiallynot in New York City. After a long bout of silence, I look over and catch Noah’s eyes once again.

“What was it like to lose a parent?”

He blinks at me, seeming startled by the question. For a second, I think he’s going to refuse to answer it, maybe reel in his line and head back to his truck. But instead he chugs what’s left in the bottle, then reaches for another and cracks it open, staring into space for a while before sighing. “Shitty. Even if you don’t always get along, it’s like you’ve lost something you’ll never get back.”

“You didn’t get along with your parents?”

He shrugs. “Not my father. I was only a kid, but we butted heads. He . . .” Noah hesitates, shakes his head.

There’s something there, the way he’s unsure about continuing. It makes my heart rate pick up, anxiety pulse in my head. My mouth goes dry, even in this peaceful place. “What?” I ask, prodding him. “He what?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Everyone adored him here in town. But people are complicated, you know?”

Boy, do I ever.

“Sure,” I say, “I get that.” The layers of feelings around my mother threaten to rush forward, but I grab the new bottle of beer from Noah’s hand and slug back a healthy amount even though hops taste like dirt to me. “How was he complicated?”

Noah looks at me. A muscle in his cheek feathers, like there are words on the tip of his tongue, and he’s not sure he wants to let them out. But he searches my face, and maybe he sees that I truly need to know. He nods. “He did some things to the family thatweren’t right.”

I stay quiet, waiting for more, but Noah doesn’t elaborate. Though it’s not hard to believe Damon Sawyer could do wrong to his own family. An underage girl, a grimy motel room . . . If a man would do that, I can imagine he could hurt just about anyone. My blood pressure ticks up a notch.

“Mom would forgive him,” Noah says suddenly. “She was an angel and forgave to a fault, but I—I didn’t find it so easy.” He purses his lips, stares out at the bobber attached to the line on his fishing pole, and stays quiet for a long time before continuing. “My sister died when I was three. She was four years older. It was an accident, but I blamed him.”

My eyes flare wide. “What happened?”

“She fell at the park, from the top of the jungle gym. Broke her neck. She died instantly. My dad was supposed to be watching her.”

My hand covers my heart. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” He nods. “Anyway, there are other things, too. Like I said, it’s complicated. But first I lost my sister, and then a few years later I lost my mother and father on the same day.”

“What do you mean? I thought your mom died last year.”

“Technically. But the truth is, when my dad died, he took my mother with him. She was never the same. She fell into a deep depression, spent most days staring out the window or sleeping in bed. I lost a mother and a father all at once.”

“That’s terrible.”

Noah meets my eyes. “It is. Because my mother was an amazing woman. She didn’t deserve to spend the rest of her life so drugged up she couldn’t boil water herself.”

I stare at him, wanting to press, wanting to ask for more details. But there’s pain in Noah’s eyes, and I think maybe he’s never talked to anyone about this. Maybe, in his own way, he’s as affected by his father as I am.

“How did your dad die?”

I can’t believe I just asked that, just blurted outthe insane question. But now that it’s out there, I hold my breath, waiting for the answer.

Noah looks up, meets my eyes with an intense stare. “He was killed.”

I don’t react. Don’t move. Don’t so much as breathe. I can’t sort out if that’s accusation in his gaze or if it’s pain. If it’sboth.

“Robbery gone wrong,” he adds, and the pressure lets off. I can exhale.

The peaceful water and swaying cypress trees all around me suddenly feel very claustrophobic. And my line of thinking is as erratic as my surroundings. I’ve bounced from wanting to dominate this man to making him talk about his dead father and dead sister. Something inside me twists, writhes, and in the moment, it feels utterly wrong to be here, talking about this with him.

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