Chapter Twenty-Five Noah
Chapter Twenty-Five
Noah
The smell of eggs infiltrates my senses as I open my eyes, yawning and stretching from where I’ve been sleeping the last few days—Chase’s couch.
Princess is purring on my chest, content to stay there, before I move her off.
“You up?” he calls from his kitchen.
He’s letting me crash at his place until I find a new one, but all I’ve really been able to think about is the old one.
Especially since we went back there yesterday to clean up the mess.
I noticed her clothes were gone, and I couldn’t breathe.
I just had to get the fuck out of there, so I locked up and left.
And I’m not going back.
It’s wild, because I’m glad she’s left. It’s exactly what I want.
But it still makes every single moment of the day completely unbearable.
With the exception of the three seconds or so when I first wake up—in that fleeting moment of time, I still think I’m going to open my eyes and see her smiling back at me.
“Omelet’s up,” Chase’s voice booms again. “And I think I found something.”
I sit up and run my hand through my hair before I pull my T-shirt over my head and make my way to the kitchen with my phone in hand, immediately taking the fork he’s offered to me.
We’re standing around the island eating as he speaks.
“Okay, so I was poking around the dark web . . .”
I scowl, mid-chew, then grab the top of his laptop and spin the screen around toward me.
“Chase, this is Safari on private browsing mode.”
He scoffs. “Regardless, I found something written about that camp from like the 2000s. At some college newspaper. They did a whole piece called ‘The Hidden Secrets of Camp Weonoke.’ It was a solid piece of exposé journalism.”
I swallow my food, gathering more on my fork. “How does that help us find him?”
“It mentioned a relative . . . a grandmother. Maybe we could find her and see if she’s heard from him or has any info.”
I never knew my grandmother. The thought of relatives is so foreign. I wasn’t just an only child. I was alone. This unwanted enigma who people hated and looked at like one day I’d be another headline.
I look down again reading the article before I shake my head. “This says she was in her eighties. She’s gone by now, dude.”
It’s weird, I’m not relieved or sad. Just right where I left off.
“Shit,” he says, stealing back his laptop, spinning it back toward him, and looks over it again before snapping it closed. “Everything’s a dead end. How the fuck are we going to find this guy?”
It was clear the other night that I wasn’t getting rid of him, so I agreed to let him help me, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try and change his mind every day until . . . The thought makes my stomach turn.
“Not we . . . me.”
I put my fork down, having already cleared my plate. Not because I’m hungry but because my inclination is to not eat, like some lovesick Romeo who wants to waste away.
He shakes his head and crosses his arms. “Are we doing this again? I thought we cleared this up the other night. How many times do I have to tell you that I’m just a boy, standing in front of another boy, asking him to let me commit possible vigilante murder with him?”
Both my hands point at the counter as my frustration rises. “Chase. This is serious . . . My father will eventually find me again, and he’s fucking crazy. He’ll gut you to get to me. You can’t be the Julia to my Hugh.”
He holds up a hand. “I know this is serious. And I know the risks. And I’m willing to take them.” Then he grins. “I’d also just like to add that I love that I’m the better-looking one in this scenario . . . Just as an aside. Continue.”
I shrug, following him off track. “I mean, she is the one who delivered the line, so it’s kind of by default.”
He nods. “Delivered? What an impactful moment . . . so raw and vulnerable. Visually beautiful. I may have gotten teary eyed.”
My hands wipe down my face as I’m jolted back to reality. “Jesus Christ. Can you focus? Can I?” I pivot before turning back again, having too much energy in my body. “This is serious shit about to go down. And I would rather do it alone.”
Chase’s palms press to the counter as he leans forward, his eyes locked to mine.
“That’s not how ‘would you rather’ works. Here’s one: Would you rather find out your best friend died because you left him alone and he’s incapable of butting out, or almost die fighting together?”
I blink back, a deadpan expression on my face. “Are you fucking kidding? Why won’t you listen to reason?”
Chase grins back at me, knowing he’s game, set, matched me. “Because what you want is unreasonable.”
Bullshit. He knows everything. I listed out the risks and the consequences of knowing me.
All the tiny little nothings over the last year that weren’t nothing—his motorcycle accident, the friend of Evie’s who was attacked out front of Goldie’s a year ago, even the dude she told me about months after we’d moved who’d scared the shit out of her. None of that was coincidence.
My father was getting closer and closer. My mind drifts to the night I kissed her in the alley, remembering the figure across the street.
He’s been watching me, waiting for his moment. I run a hand through my hair. “I keep saying this, but you aren’t hearing me. Billy’s here to finish the job.”
Chase crosses his arms, undeterred. I groan, throwing my hands up.
“This fucking stubborn loyalty to me is annoying. Quit.”
“Nah, and leave my brother out here with only his good looks and no common sense? That’s the point of the smart, funny sidekick—I save your ass. You can’t be a hero without me.”
A hero? I’m as much of a villain. Nobody would be in this mess if it wasn’t for me. But I don’t say any of that, just stare back at him as he keeps going.
“Now back to business. I was thinking about this last night. I think we should go—”
I cut him off, suspecting he’s going to say “to the cops.”
“No. I can’t do that. They’re just gonna say I’m wrong because they ruled him dead thirty years ago. Nobody’s helping us . . . or me, rather. You shouldn’t be helping me either.”
He scowls, then rubs his chin thoughtfully, and I shake my head.
“We need to bait him,” he rushes out like the idea just sprang to life.
I frown. “You really don’t have any regard for your own safety, do you?”
Chase looks back at me, and for the first time, I truly see it in his eyes—the belief he has in the words I’ve been saying. But for reasons I’ll never be able to accept or explain, he’s not scared away. He shrugs.
“I’m not looking to die young, Noah. But I’m also unwilling to let my best friend handle this shit alone.
We’re family. We don’t quit on each other.
So get on board, and let’s figure out a plan.
” The sharp sound of a knife unsheathed from its holder slices through the room before he twists it around his fingers.
“Your mom wasn’t the only person good with a knife. ”
He’s serious.
I chuckle. I can’t believe it, but I do. God, I hate him for giving me this feeling of hope and for forgiving me when I can’t even do that for myself.
“I’m pretty sure Billy’s gonna be harder to stick than a rack of lamb.”
Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve mentally given up changing Chase’s mind or that we’re casually talking about murder, but I’m tired again. A deep exhale sags my shoulders as I run a hand over my jaw.
I just need a minute.
“Honestly,” I say on an empty laugh, “I don’t know what the plan is. I’ll get back to you. All I know is I need a shower . . . And if you don’t mind, I’d like to do that alone.”
Chase picks up what I’m putting down because he nods, not saying anything back.
I push away from the counter, pocket my phone, and turn around.
I hear him pick up his fork to gently cut another piece of the omelet before he talks through a mouthful.
“You know, you might feel a little less dirty if you told her.”
I freeze in place, my back to him. My jaw tenses, but I stand in silence long enough to remember how to breathe. Jesus, he doesn’t even have to say her name to level me.
“Heroes are supposed to save the girl,” I say over my shoulder, turning my head but not looking at him.
“Right? They sacrifice themselves.” My hand grips the back of my neck as I finally meet his eyes.
He gives me a nod. “I’ll never be able to make it right, Chase.
And she’ll never forgive me. But I can keep her safe .
. .” I turn back this time as I walk, saying the rest loud enough for him to hear. “Don’t bring her up again.”
The moment I close the bathroom door, my ass hits the counter as I lean back and grip the edge, breathing too fast and too hard. My knuckles rub the middle of my chest, feeling the tightness. This feels like a panic attack, but it’s grief.
Fuck, I miss her. I think about her, I dream about her. She’s still all over me.
The past few days have felt like a lifetime.
My eyes close, and I hate and love the ache in the center of my chest because at least it’s something that still connects me to her. The memories come slowly, as if they’re testing the waters . . . making sure I don’t break.
I see her laughing. The way her hair swishes when she walks. I remember the night we lay in bed and I counted her freckles, stopping at 642. And that morning she burned the quiche, then FaceTimed Chase to make him teach her how to make me a new one.
All the happiest moments of my life run through my mind until they crash down around the last picture in my mind—the look on her face as I begged her not to leave.
The fear on it . . . She was looking at a stranger.
I am no one to her now. I love you, don’t hate me.
I blink my eyes open, clear the lump in my throat, slowly pull out my phone, and stare down at the message I received last night. The one I didn’t want to tell Chase about because I’m still unsure how I want to handle it.
617-999-5757: Hello, this is Matthew Wright from Origins Investigative Services. I would like to clarify some information obtained by the Monroes. They’ve asked me to contact you privately, and they request you don’t contact their daughter. Please call or text back as soon as possible.
My head begins warring with itself again because she deserves the truth. But what if when she finds out, she gets as pigheaded as Chase? Then again, maybe if I tell this guy, he could help her understand that she’s better off without me.
I shake my head as I stare down at the screen, realizing that in all my scenarios, Goldie wants me back, but no matter what subconscious thoughts I have, we’re done. She’ll never be able to look at me the same. I ruined us.
The truth is the least I can give her back.
Her parents will know the right time to share it with her.
I know that in my bones. Her heart’s protected by her family.
Thinking it makes me close the message and go to the one that’s been burning a hole in my gut ever since Monday at one a.m. when I received it.
Evie: Saw the apartment. Stay the fuck away from my sister and my family or I’ll kill you myself. Don’t contact her either. My parents are taking her home, away from you. What you did . . . who you are. You fucking broke her, and I hope you burn in hell.
An easier breath leaves me as I start to calm. Evie’s message should feel like a knife to the heart, but all I can think is At least she’s safe.
I switch back to the message with Matthew again before my fingers fly over the keys. I toss my phone on the bathroom counter and strip, then get into the hot shower to try and wash the last seventy-two hours away.
Me: Tell me when and where
The water splashes down over my face as I hear the ding, but I still get out and drip water on the floor to check it.
617-999-5757: Tomorrow, Friday, 1pm, Baker’s coffee downtown