Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
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’t affairs. ‘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 the course 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 my mother want?”
His brows furrow. “Hmm?”
“You went to visit her in the hospital. Why?”
“Oh. She had a nurse call me. I was curious, so I went. The first time she was sleeping, so I went back the next day. She asked what my intentions were with you. I told her not to worry, they were all good. She was in and out of it after that, so I left her to rest.” He knocks back the amber liquid in his glass. “Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“You accused me of sending you stuff. So you, what, think I was stalking you or something?”
“Yes.”
“Why would I do that? Even if I had known about you and my dad. Why on God’s earth would I want to bring up shit that happened twenty years ago?”
“Revenge?”
“Revenge for what?”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I wait until Noah looks up and our eyes meet. “Revenge for killing your father.”
Noah’s brows shoot up. “You strangled my father?”
“Strangled? No. I hit him over the head with a lamp to keep him from punching me more on the night of my graduation.”
Noah’s eyes flare. “Well, then you didn’t kill my father. Because he died from asphyxiation, not a head injury.”
CHAPTER
42
The days pass in a blur, one after another.
Mr. Sawyer died from asphyxiation.
The morning after Noah caught me in his house, I woke to an envelope slipped under my door. Inside was a death certificate. His death certificate. An original, with a raised county seal. Of course, Noah could’ve made it. Technology is pretty advanced these days. But it looked pretty damn real. Even the envelope it was tucked into had the county seal and return address.