Page 77 of Finding Noah

I bolted upright in bed, gasping and clutching at my throat. Sweat dripped from my forehead, soaking the sheets I lay upon. Beside me, Meg stirred, lifting her head off her pillow and outstretching her arm toward me.

“Noah, baby, what happened? Did you have another nightmare?”

I groaned in response, laying my hands over my face.

Of course it had been another nightmare. There was always another nightmare. And while Meg thought those nightmares put me at 1111 Daffodil Lane, not far from where we were right now, she couldn't have been further from the truth.

No, those nightmares brought me to a place farther away. Somewhere unbeknownst to me, but a place I could still smell, hear, see when I squeezed my eyes shut.

Twenty years ago, Seth—my biological father—had taken me to that house and demanded I find a bag while he threatened some guy named Tommy with a gun. Twenty years ago, I'd wandered around that filthy, flea-infested house until I found a boy a little older than me. We fought. We tumbled into a dark, dark room, where he tried to strangle me, and Seth told me to get outside, get out of the house, and after I did, after I listened, there was a gunshot. A thunderous crack that had shaken the entire ground I stood upon, rattling my bones and soul for all of eternity.

I'd never forget it.

I'd never forget them.

And it was him who haunted me. Not the horrors in Dad's old trailer, but him. The boy with the messy hair and mean eyes. He had been as dirty as the house. He had been as helpless as me. A victim. A product of something he'd never asked for.

What ever happened to you?

Was it his dad who died that night or …

I shuddered with a sigh, letting my hands fall from my face.

“You're okay, baby,” Meg said, her voice heavy with sleep. She sat up, wrapping her arms around me and resting her cheek against my shoulder. “You're okay. You're safe.”

She didn't know. She knew about none of it. God, nobody did. I'd never told anyone. I'd kept my fear-driven promise to my piece-of-shit father, who'd sworn he'd get me …

I narrowed my eyes, trying to remember what the hell he'd bribed me with for going into that house that I knew I shouldn't be anywhere near, let alone in.

“McDonald's,” I muttered aloud, nodding slowly.

Meg lifted her head. “What?”

The need to tell someone was overwhelming. Fuck, the need to tell her … she'd carry it with me. She'd carry the world if I asked her to, though I never would, but this … I wanted … no, fuck, I needed to let her in on this. I needed to tell her, to explain what exactly kept me tethered to a past so horrible that it terrorized my dreams more often than not.

“Meghan,” I whispered, my voice hoarse, and I swallowed.

My hands shook as fear took me by the throat, its long, cold, bony fingers tightening their hold and piercing my flesh. I was doing this, and I had to remind myself that my father—the father whose blood soiled my veins—wasn't coming back from the dead to slaughter me for spilling his dirty, dark secrets. He couldn't hurt me, he couldn't hurt any of us, but why did it feel like he might?

“What's wrong?”

“I … I need to tell you something,” I started slowly. “I know it's late. I-I know we need to sleep, but I have to do this now or—”

“Noah, you're freaking me out right now,” she said, her fingers tightening against my chest.

“No, don't … don't be scared. It has nothing to do with you. It's—”

“Does this have anything to do with us?”

I furrowed my brow because, you know, I had no idea how to answer that question. Because while, no, it didn't directly have anything to do with our relationship or the way I felt about her, it had everything to do with why I wasn't sure I wanted to keep on building a life in this town, where not a single thing happened.

“Why are you hesitating?”

I wiped the remaining sweat from my brow as I shook my head. “Because I don't know,” I admitted honestly. “I mean, no, it doesn't have anything to do with us, but it has something to do with me. It has everything to do with me and who I am, and you … you need to know. You need to understand. You need—”

“Okay,” she said, interrupting softly. “Okay. Whatever it is, tell me. Go ahead.”

So … I did, but not without stalling or hesitation. Telling her the gritty details of that night was as harrowing of an experience as anything I'd ever been through. And the guilt! Holy fuck, the guilt … it was like I'd been the one to commit the crime myself, like I, at six years old, had been an accomplice when I was nothing but an innocent, unwilling participant in the shit show Seth had made of his miserable life.