Page 103 of Finding Noah

“Holy shit,” I said, driving down the street lined with businesses, stores, and more gas stations than any street in a two-block radius needed.

“Was that thunder?”

“Yeah,” I said, grimacing at the storm surrounding me.

The thought of stepping out into that was about as appealing as sticking my hand in a box full of scorpions.

“We had a nasty storm come through last night,” Meg said. “I guess it went up there.”

“You have reached your destination,” my GPS announced, and I looked out the car window to see an old, towering Victorian-style house.

I squinted my eyes to read the sign hanging on the porch through the pouring rain, and sure enough, it read The Llewellyn Family Funeral Home.

In this area of big-box stores and warehouses, it stuck out like a sore thumb.

My gut erupted into a thousand swarming bees as I flipped my turn signal on.

“You're at the funeral home?”

“I am,” I said, turning into the parking lot. “Let me run in here and see what I can find. I'll call you when I'm done.”

Meg cleared her throat. “Okay …” She let the word linger, like there was something else she wanted to say but … wouldn't.

I turned the car off and waited for another moment, giving her the time to speak, to stop me, but instead, she hesitantly added, “I'll talk to you later.”

“Okay,” I said, looking out the car window toward the house with the wraparound porch. “I won't be long in there. I hope.”

“Love you,” she muttered.

“Love you too, babe.”

I hung up and got out of the car, stepping into a torrential downpour of biblical proportions. I couldn't help thinking the rain was a bad omen. I'd thought the same of the ominous clouds at the cemetery. But I ignored my nagging intuition as I trudged on and headed toward the steps. Because a good detective knew when he was heading toward potential danger, but he did it anyway. No matter how many sirens were being set off in his head, so loud that he could barely hear the calling of a sharply dressed man, standing beneath the funeral home porch roof with a cigarette in hand.

But I saw him before I heard him, and I headed over, steeling my nerves as I reached into my jeans pocket for my badge.

“Sorry about that,” I said, having no clue what the man had been trying to say. I walked up the porch steps and approached, finding him to be nearly as tall as Dad. I held my badge out to him and allowed him to take it from me as I introduced myself. “Officer Noah Mason.”

“Officer,” the man said carefully and coolly, his voice deep and rich in tone.

He studied my badge for a moment before scanning my ID, his eyes volleying between my face and the picture the RCPD had taken years ago.

And as he made no secret of assessing me, I quietly did the same. A suspicious man often gave reason for suspicion, but I didn't want him knowing he'd raised some flags by very clearly questioning my presence.

He was in his late thirties, early forties. Easily six foot five, maybe six foot six, but not as tall as Dad at six foot seven, and judging from the way his neatly pressed black suit fit, he wasn't a stranger to the gym. His jaw was heavily speckled with dark brown, nearly black, stubble, the same color as the hair on his head, save for his temples, where the hair was primarily a stark silvery white—the greatest indication of his age. Thick brows sat above his deep gray eyes, his nose was strong, and his lips fell somewhere on the line between thin and full.

A good-looking guy, I noted. Hollywood attractive. The kind of dude Meg would see on the TV screen and poke at her inner cheek with her tongue, and I'd know she found him hot, but didn't want to say anything to protect my confidence. But guys on a screen didn't threaten me. I knew I physically paled in comparison to those actors and rock stars, but I'd tell myself they weren't real. They had been manufactured by teams of surgeons and makeup artists and physical trainers. But this guy—whoever the hell he was—existed in the real world, and I could safely say that he left me rattled, his appearance and manner combined.

After a moment, he passed the badge back to me and asked casually, “What can I do for you, sir?”

As I schooled my features into an expression that I hoped read friendly, I slid my identification back into my pocket and said, “I was hoping you could help me with a case I'm working. A man was brought here twenty years ago. You—the funeral home—handled his services.”

With a deep breath, he lifted his head and brought the cigarette to his lips for a puff, then stopped and met my eye with a raised brow. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

I shook my head. “Go ahead,” I said, eyeing the thin white cylinder in his hand. “Actually, would you mind if I bummed one off of you?”

“Not at all,” he said, then slipped the cigarette between his lips and held it there while his hand tucked between the lapels of his suit jacket and produced a pack of smokes and a lighter. “Be my guest.”

He flipped the pack open and offered it to me. I selected one and held it to my mouth as he flicked the lighter, bringing it up to set the end of the cigarette alight.