Page 101 of Finding Noah

I stuffed my hand into my jeans pocket and clutched my phone as the other hand lifted to touch the grip of my gun, tucked into the waistband of my jeans, concealed by the hem of my T-shirt.

Warning bells rang through my head. Intuition urged my feet to turn around. But I proceeded down the path of the small graveyard to search for the dead man I'd come for anyway because I knew that was what a good detective would do—to ignore every human desire to run when facing fear.

The air was still as I moved with caution, swinging my gaze from left to right every few steps. It was silly to believe that a cemetery would be a crowded hotspot on a weekend, but to be as empty as it was felt just as strange, and, fuck, I was freaking myself out more and more with every passing minute. Thoughts of ghosts and apparitions flooded my mind, and I was certain that something sinister was waiting for me behind every weathered stone. It wasn't long before I realized my hands were trembling, and I dared to shut my eyes and huff out a long breath as I gave my head a shake.

I'm being stupid.

“Holy shit,” I mumbled, pressing my lips together and willing my rattled heart to settle.

A crunch of gravel rang out from my right, and I gasped, my eyelids flying open, my hand holding tight to my gun.

At first, my bewildered, unfocused gaze saw nothing but unkept trees and headstones. But then I saw a man hurrying along the path, his head down and his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. He wore a brown leather jacket despite the summer heat and a black baseball cap on his head, his face hidden from view. He looked cold, or like he was bracing against the weather that hadn't yet come, and he hurried past me without so much as a glance.

Suspicious, was my first observation. He looks suspicious.

I turned and continued to stare at his back, trying to remember if there'd been any other cars parked on the street, wondering if he'd walked. My gaze narrowed as I focused on him and the entrance to the cemetery.

He left, steered to the right, and disappeared from view.

“Weird,” I said aloud, though maybe it wasn't.

There were businesses in the area and several blocks of houses to the south. He could've easily come from any of those places without breaking much of a sweat.

But in a jacket? In this weather?

I rolled my eyes toward the blackened clouds. I was looking too deep into everything, I realized. Charlie's cut-off words, empty graveyards, and the intentions of random mourners. It was stupid. I was stupid, and I needed to get on with this investigation, which seemed to feel more and more unnecessary and ridiculous by the second.

Then, without allowing myself another moment of hesitation, I continued on down the path to find the grave of Tomas Nolan.

***

“Hey.”

Meg's voice sounded sleepy on the line, like she'd just woken up.

Then she yawned, confirming my suspicions, and as I drove the car in the direction of The Llewellyn Family Funeral Home, I smiled, wishing I were curled up in bed with her instead.

“Were you taking a nap?”

She was the early bird in this relationship, and most days, I needed her to give me a shove or five, even with my alarm blasting off on the nightstand beside my pillow.

“I woke up a couple of hours ago and had breakfast,” she explained before yawning again. “But I must've fallen back to sleep after we were texting. I'm so freakin' tired.”

“Couldn't sleep last night?” I guessed.

“It was weird without you here,” she admitted sadly. “Your side was too cold.”

“Maybe we should get a dog,” I suggested, thinking about how lonely Aunt Stormy's guest room was and how little sleep I'd gotten myself.

“Why? Do you plan on more of these weekend excursions?” She said it teasingly, but I couldn’t miss the undertone of reluctant worry, and it made my chest ache with sadness and longing to be home.

Where I belonged.

“Well, I mean, when I'm made detective, who the fuck knows what mysteries I'll have to solve, right?” My lip quirked into a forlorn smile.

I loved this—hunting people down, searching for clues, putting the pieces together—but what would that type of career do to the cozy little life I was building with her? The constant game of tug-of-war between wanting this and wanting her was getting old and exhausting, and I didn’t know how to balance it.

“You can do detective work here, you know.”