Page 82 of Someone Knows

“You can. I don’t care. But you’re scaring me, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’mscaringyou? Are you fucking kidding me? You turned my world upside down by pretending to bemy studentand sending me that sick shit you wrote!”

Neither of us speaks for a moment. My breaths are coming fast, harsh. I’m hyperventilating.

“I can tell you’re not going to believe me,but I have no clue what you’re talking about right now. Whatever you think I’m doing to you, you got the wrong guy.”

I keep trying to get out of the hold, but he’s bigger and stronger.Just like his goddamned father.Eventually, I settle into an eerie calm.

“Let go of me,” I grit through my teeth. “I’m fine.”

He loosens his grip, but doesn’t release me. “Will you talk to me? Tell me what you think is going on here?”

I don’t respond, but after a moment, he slowly lets go, lets his arms fall away a little at a time. Eventually, he takes a step back, giving me space. The crumpled Polaroids that I brought down here, still in my hands, are now on the floor. Noah bends and picks them up. He unfurls the plastic and stares down for a long time.

“This is you, isn’t it?” He swallows. “You were one of his girls?”

He’s almost believable. But I’m not falling for the Sawyer men’s crap anymore. “I think we’re past pretending. Why don’t you just tell me what you want from me, Noah?”

“I don’t want anything from you. I only wanted to get to know you.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Because I like you. Because you seem to know what you want and not be afraid to take it. I found that refreshing.” He looks into my eyes. “I swear, I had no idea that you . . .” He trails off. “I only recently found out about my father’s affairs with his students.”

“They weren’taffairs. ‘Affairs’ implies two consenting adults. I was a child, and your father was my abuser—both physically and sexually.”

Noah rakes a hand through his hair, blows out a full breath of air. “I had no idea. I really didn’t. After my mother died, I decided to remodel the house. When I took down the drop ceiling in the bathroom, I found the Polaroids. I recognized my father’s handwriting, and, well, it was par for thecourse with him.”

“How so?”

“Well, he wasn’t a good guy. His hobbies included writing poetry and beating my mother four nights a week. Me, too, once I turned six and tried to stop him the first time. Sad to say, but discovering he kept a stash of photos of young girls wasn’t too shocking.” He frowns. “I’m so sorry he did that to you.”

For a half second, I almost buy it—believe he’s sincere and just another innocent victim in this mess. But I’m done being gullible. “Where’s the journal, Noah? Your father must’ve kept a journal.”

“If he did, I didn’t find it.”

“Then how did you know all the details you wrote in the chapters you sent me?”

“I didn’t send you anything, Elizabeth, I swear.”

I look over at the desk, at the bookshelves I haven’t checked yet. “I’m going to keep searching.”

He shrugs. “Have at it. I’ll give you some space and go wait in the kitchen. It’s the least I can do.”

Noah leaves, and I finish rummaging through the office. I don’t rip the books from the shelves or upend the drawers, but I do a thorough search—every book, every piece of paper in the desk. Twenty minutes later, I walk into the kitchen empty-handed. Noah sits at the table with a bottle of whiskey and a glass.

“You want some?” he asks without looking up.

“No.”

He shrugs. “Find anything of interest?”

“I assume you know I didn’t or you wouldn’t have let me finish searching. You have it somewhere else.”

He shakes his head. “Is there anything I can say or do that will make you believe I had no idea who you were when you walked into the bar that night? And I had no idea what you went through until you just told me?”

“Probably not. What did mymother want?”

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