Page 90 of Finding Noah

I looked up the stairs, and without another moment to think, I hurried up, walked through the open bedroom door, and sat on Meg's side of the bed.

“Meg,” I said, giving her shoulder a shake. “Meg, wake up. Please.”

She startled, her eyes snapping open, only to narrow with concern.

“Huh?” She yawned and propped herself up on an elbow. “Baby, what's wrong?”

“I-I think I found him,” I said, holding out her iPad. Then I shook my head, startled by how badly I wanted to cry. “I … I can't open it. I don't want to look.”

Her expression softened. “You want me to look first?”

My head jittered with a nod.

“But … I mean, I don't know what he looks like—”

“That's okay,” I interjected, laying the iPad on her lap. “I-I just need you to look first. See if there's a picture or … or something.”

She nodded. “Okay,” she said, sitting up higher and taking the iPad in hand. “All right. You ready?”

I laid my hands over my face, shielding my eyes further from what was about to appear on the iPad screen that wasn't even facing me. I groaned, then uttered a pathetic, “Yes.”

Her fingertip hit the glass with a soft tap. Then, a moment later, she said, “Okay. There's a picture.”

“What does he look like?”

“Um … like a guy you wouldn't want to be alone with.”

“Balding?”

“Mmhmm, yes.”

“Is he smiling?”

“He is,” she said quietly. “Was he missing teeth?”

The breath shuddered from my lungs as I whispered, “Oh God. Yeah.”

The room fell eerily quiet then.

Meg must've understood what this all meant now—that she was looking at the picture of not just a dead man, but one I had seen alive right before my father had shot him. God, Seth had killed him, just feet from where I stood on the other side of the front door, on a cold stoop in Massachusetts.

Now, I knew.

I knew what had happened to at least one of those people that night … and I knew his son had survived.

He’d watched his dad die.

He’d watched my father murder his.

I had to suck in a deep breath to keep myself from falling apart.

“Do you want to see?” she finally asked.

I swallowed and let my hands fall from my face. “Yeah,” I said before clearing my throat.

I took the iPad from her, suddenly braver than I had been capable of being downstairs, and without a moment to hesitate, I looked into the eyes of the man who'd once begged my father to let them live.

He looked almost exactly as I remembered. Weaselly. Greasy. He was the type of person my biological father would've associated with. Through the picture, I could smell him, and I could hear his voice. I could envision his erratic movements, and now, in adulthood, I knew he'd likely been high as a kite. On what, I couldn't say, but he'd definitely been under the influence of something.