Chapter 6
Noah
Lily rushes to her car, and I wait as she digs for her keys and yanks open the door. An abundance of junk falls out: crumpled papers, a black hoodie, a gallon water jug?
Max whines in the back seat from being cooped up this morning, but I have the perfect plan to run him. There are a couple of trails I need to hike today to check on a few campers staying outside the designated areas.
I linger a while longer, watching Lily crawl into her car.
Squinting, I can almost make out a stack of something in the back, filled to the brim.
She was set on coming to her car as opposed to her home, and I’m curious why she didn’t have anyone to come pick her up from the hospital.
If it had been my mom, I would’ve driven all night after hearing the news.
I sigh, then slouch a bit in my seat and lean my elbow on the window to contemplate all that is Lily Parker.
In another world, one in a big city instead of the serene open spaces, where towering skyscrapers replace staggering sequoias—I imagine Lily would be more of the grunge punk rocker opposed to the reclusive, yet grouchy, hiker.
Her dyed hair and nose ring certainly add to that picture.
Plus, the fact her hiking equipment is subpar leads me to believe she hasn’t grown up on the trails and in the lifestyle.
Car tires screech against the trailhead parking gravel, followed by the rapid crunch and scatter of stones flinging in every direction.
I jolt up as Max moves toward the rear window to leer out at Lily’s car, speeding off in the dusty gravel now twisting in the air.
This girl. She’s like a damn tornado.
Shaking my head, for what feels like the twentieth time today, I radio in and turn the truck around heading back to the trails I need to patrol. With the window rolled down and the song “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” turned up too loud, I almost miss the ping of my phone in the center console.
When I glance at the sender, I’m caught off guard. Or maybe that’s a lie … it’s not so much off guard but a rising panic when I see Brent’s name.
I snatch my phone, swerving in the road as I read the message.
Brent
Yo, can you spot me $100?
I grunt but pull off to the side of the road anyway.
My hands clench so hard my knuckles go white around the steering wheel, the pads of my fingers digging into my palms. I pound out an answer letting Brent know I’m working, but with the tightness spreading into my temples I follow it up by asking where he wants to meet.
Being a slave to him, his every beck and call—my jaw aches as I grind my teeth.
It’s typical. The vague but desperate messages whenever he’s short on cash, as if I’m a resource.
I drive out to the abandoned warehouse we agreed to meet at, the one that looms just outside Pinebrook.
It’s not exactly on the tourist’s to-tour list, and for many of the average locals, it’s the kind of place that’s forgotten.
However, for many dealing in illegal things, this is the place to come.
Rust stains streak down the corrugated metal siding, and the once dark-green paint is peeled to reveal the dull steel underneath.
I maneuver my truck near a broken back window, but most of the windows that line the top of the walls are just that.
Broken. Jagged glass catches the sunlight making anywhere I look a glaring landmine.
Weeds poke through the cracked asphalt of the old parking lot that used to be a thriving operation specializing in lumber processing in the 1950s.
Most of the surrounding landscaping has dried out, brittle patches of grass are sparse, and the sign above the main bay door that used to read Mason’s Millworks is now faded and unreadable.
As I park, the stale and heavy air filters through my open window.
The faint metallic smell mixes with old oil and the odd scent of dirt.
I test my tongue against the roof of my mouth, annoyed I can taste the thick air.
With a quick swig, I finish my coffee from the diner, thinking of Lily going there so soon after her accident.
At least her boss was understanding. Hopefully, he takes it easy on her.
Although I’m not so sure why I care.
Max paws at the rear door behind me, letting out a whimper.
“Nein.”
He whimpers again, pawing twice at the handle.
“Fine. Let’s go to the bathroom,” I groan.
After jumping out of the truck, I let Max out and he darts off to sniff around and relieve himself.
Brent isn’t here yet, but I scan the warehouse.
Cigarette butts litter the ground around me, accompanied by beer bottles galore.
The wind moves, whistling through the holes in the metal building, the low hum unsettling in a way.
I hate this. Waiting here for him.
Not only am I in uniform, but my NPS truck is hard to miss.
Leaning against the tailgate, I keep my eyes fixed on the road that stretches around a bend and through the trees. Luckily, it’s an older service road with almost no residential traffic.
There’s a loud bang and I push off to find Max toying with something in the bushes. I can’t tell if it’s living or not, but annoyed, I yell, “Max, Aus. Heir.”
He looks at me, considering, his tongue out and lolled to the side.
“Heir.”
He kicks into a run, plowing back to me.
“Braver Hund. Fu?.”
He heels at my left side in time for an engine to barrel down the road. My pulse quickens, the weight of this meeting, the second in two weeks, bothering me.
Brent’s blue truck rolls into the spot beside mine, and I don’t miss how Max’s eyes perk up, curious. He revs the truck’s engine before jumping out, a chuckle leaving his grin.
I breathe through the heat creeping up my neck.
“Hey, m-man! What’s going on?” Brent’s hands tremble as he fumbles with his phone.
Brent and I went to high school together, and we were inseparable throughout my time at college.
He’s my age, thirty, but the wear on his face—he could pass as ten years older.
I don’t miss the sweat that beads on his forehead, wrinkled with his raised brow.
His skin is pale, stretched over sharp cheekbones that were once filled out.
Dark circles cling underneath his bloodshot blue eyes, faded and unfocused.
While his hair is blond, it’s darkened by grease and unkempt, sticking limp to his sweaty temples.
“Brent. What do you need this time?” I shuffle on my feet.
He shoves his hands in his baggy red hoodie, the sleeves frayed. His fingers fidget inside his pocket before he yanks them out again, sharp and sudden.
“Need you to s-spot me another hundred. I promise this is the last t-time.” He sniffs, dragging shaky raw knuckles across his nose.
I shake my head, hating myself. This has to be the last time.
What type of friend would I be if I gave him this money?
“What’s it for this time?” I ask, dragging a boot in the dirt to make a semicircle.
Brent rolls his eyes. “Don’t do this. You owe me!” His restless leg bounces. He wipes at his nose again and again, like it’s a nervous tic.
I do. I owe him.
It eats me alive that he can use our past to manipulate me now.
“Just tell me,” I demand, ripping my hat off.
“I need more J-Jackpot, okay! We can’t all be p-perfect momma’s boys riding on the right side of the law.” He gnaws at a knuckle.
I riffle through all the thoughts swirling through my mind. All the reasons I shouldn’t give him the money, enabling him. The looming events from that night nine years ago that make it possible for Brent to even ask me such a thing right now—for me to consider it.
It started three years ago when Brent came back into town from his time away, though I’m not sure where he went away to.
Our interactions were normal the first few weeks after he returned.
We hiked, went to grab a beer, and even had a double date, but one night he came to me, all mumbling and shaky like he is now.
He wanted money. Wouldn’t tell me anything about why he wanted it.
I assumed it was for gas or something—turns out I was wrong.
“Brent,” I say. “You need help. Let me help you man.”
“Help me? Like I helped you? You owe me! I spent six months in prison for you.”
My stomach bottoms out.
“All of this”—he gestures to my uniform—“wouldn’t be possible if it weren’t for me. So yeah, you owe me. Y-you seem like a simple guy, Noah. Living in a cabin in the woods with your sidekick dog. I’d hate for your life to become complicated.”
I snarl at him.
Brent rolls up his sleeves and holds out his tattooed arm, palm up expectantly. The black inked raven flexes as he beckons at me. “Don’t make me t-tell your superiors about what really happened that night. Your job, this l-life you’ve bought yourself, would disappear in an instant.”
He snaps his fingers.
My hand shoots out, grabbing for the collar of his shirt and twisting the fabric tight in my fist. I jerk him closer, feeling the tension in his shoulder as he stumbles forward, face inches from mine.
My knuckles press hard against his chest as he tries to grapple with my arm, heartbeat hammering under my grip.
My jaw clenches while the words I want to say stay lodged behind my teeth. I let the silence stretch on, hoping to convey just how close he is to pushing me over the edge. Max barks.
I never asked him to take the fall all those years ago. He did that all on his own.
Afterward, our once close relationship from high school and college was stripped away.
Honestly, I’m shocked our friendship lasted throughout college.
It wasn’t like we went away to some fancy school.
My mother couldn’t afford that, but she has worked herself to the bone, seeing to it that I had enough money to attend the local community college while living at home.
Brent also went there. I never knew if he followed me because he wanted to, or if he didn’t have any other options.
It eats at me, that knot of guilt coiled in my chest, tightening every time I think of him locked away because of me. Because of our stupid childish ways.
I can picture him in there, counting down the days, after taking the sole blame for something we did together. Stupid. We were so stupid.
I should’ve come clean, should have stepped up and taken what I deserved, but before I could he’d turned himself in, leaving my name out of his mouth. He’d known my goal was law enforcement in some capacity. He even knew I was leaning toward the National Park Service.
Some part of me was relieved. All the hours my mother labored away to fill our savings account for college, for my future—it would’ve been gone in a single night.
I thought it’d all blow over, but six months? Six months of his life, gone. Every time I look in the mirror, it’s like his face stares back, reminding me just how low I sank.
When he got out, we tried. Tried to go back to how things were between us. To hang together with all our friends, to pretend things hadn’t shifted the moment he went away, but it was all a lie. He ended up leaving town only to come back a different person, someone I don’t recognize.
There’s another bark from Max as he obeys my command to heel at my side.
Brent’s lip curls in an angry, provocative smirk. The stench of his body odor hits me—sharp and sour. A rank mix of pungent sweat curls up my nose, a heavy reminder of how close he is, how desperate he must be to neglect himself.
I release him, and he stumbles back but catches himself against my truck. He lets out a growl and then kicks the tire. “Is this h-how it’s going to be, Noah?”
I swipe a hand over my head. It’s hot from the streaming sun in spite of the cooler temperature. I pull out my wallet, open it, and remove a hundred-dollar bill, handing it over.
“Th-thanks, man.” Brent snickers, and I grind my teeth at the sound.
How did we get here? And for a hundred bucks.
Max whines at my side, nudging me with his snout as Brent walks backward toward his truck. He spins with a hop when he reaches his door to climb in.
After he speeds off, the roar of his muffler echoes through the trees, and I slump against my vehicle, hating myself.
He’ll reach out again. It’s been getting more frequent.
But beyond the fear that I’m funding his habit lies the sheer panic of handing him money at all—especially when I’ve been using any extra I have to help pay for my mother’s in-home care.
My heart pounds so hard I swear it’s going to burst, and every second that ticks by just pisses me off more. I wrap my fingers around the door handle, feeling them slip with the sweat of my palms. I yank, and it takes everything in me not to slam the door after Max has climbed in.
I do the same, cranking up the AC. I’m trapped, cornered, with nowhere to go but straight back to work like nothing happened.