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“You cut yourself,” I say.
“It wouldn’t have been believable otherwise.”
“Why did you do it, Noah? Why did you spare my life?”
He pulls over several blocks from my house. We sit there in silence for what seems like forever, the only sound the pitter-patter of scattered rain against the windshield.
“Why did you save me?” I repeat the question that’s been burning in my mind. “Your mother wants me dead, but you saved me.”
Without turning to me, he replies, “Iwanted you dead.”
His response is another blow to my already battered heart. But he deserves the truth. “I didn’t kill your father, Noah. It wasn’t me.”
Now he does turn to me and I almost wish he hadn’t. The shadows I’ve wondered about from the start have emerged and they’re darker and more terrifying than I could have imagined. They’re blackened with Noah’s fury, hate, grief, and confusion. They tear at my chest, splaying it open.
Raw pain fills me at the sight of those beautiful golden eyes looking so tortured, sparking that instinct inside me to reach out and soothe him in spite of all that he’s done.
“Noah,” I whisper.
“Get out. Leave the city. Leave the motherfucking state. If you don’t, you will end up dead.”
“I didn’t kill your father,” I repeat.
“Evidence says otherwise,” he hisses.
“What evidence? You accuse me without showing me why.”
“There are pictures. Stills that show you pointing a gun at him in your father’s study.”
“What?” Frowning, I think back to that day. Yes, I was in the study. Dad’s camera would have captured the incident. “I’m not sure what exactly those stills show, but I swear there’s more to the story.”
“Then fill me in please. Paint me the entire fucking picture.”
His tone grates, and for a moment, I consider getting out without saying another word, leaving him to always wonder what really happened.
But this is Noah and my heart still aches for him. For his wounded soul that, just like my father’s, can’t seem to heal.
“Months before that night, I met Leonardo at one of our showcases,” I begin. “My father had put something on the discreet market that Leo wanted.”
“Discreet,” he huffs.
Ignoring his comment, I continue, “He started coming by the gallery a lot after that. Said he needed help decorating his new condo.”
“Lies. He didn’t have a condo.”
“He did, Noah. In Edgewater. I can give you the address.”
Sharpening his gaze, he slices me with a look of disbelief. “I took care of his estate. There was nothing about a condo in Edgewater.”
I shrug. “It’s there. I hung art on the walls myself.”
“Then what?” he urges me to continue, though he doesn’t seem to want to hear it.
“One day, he asked me if I painted. When I said yes, he insisted I show him my work. I brought some to the gallery for him to see, and he bought them all. He kept on buying them, actually. Every time he came in, he asked for one. And by the end, he was coming in frequently. So often, in fact, that my father took him out to dinner one time and had a talk.”
“What kind of talk?”
“The kind that politely tells you to take your business elsewhere.” I chew my bottom lip, unsure how to say the next thing. “He showed signs of interest in me, Noah. Beyond the art, he wanted me and I did not want him back.”
