Page 104 of Finding Noah

“Thanks, man,” I said, taking a pull and relishing in the taste I often missed but never gave in to. I wouldn't have now, but I wanted … no, needed this guy to trust me and to stop questioning my motives.

Even if I didn't quite trust him.

I closed my eyes and sighed. “Damn, that's good,” I muttered. “Been a long time since I've had one of these.”

“A long time,” he mused beneath his breath. “You're, what, twenty-three? How long could it have possibly been?”

I laughed. “Twenty-six. But I quit when I started at the academy, and that was … God, five, six years ago, I guess?”

I was divulging a little information, but nothing he wouldn't have known already from looking at my ID.

He grunted with acknowledgment, slowly nodding as he took a long drag, then sent the smoke swirling to disappear beneath the cover of rain.

“Twenty years ago,” he muttered, returning to my inquiry. He exhaled again. “I'm not sure we have those records. You'll probably have to speak to my associate. He's more involved in keeping the books than I am.”

I hummed with a nod, pulling the cigarette away from my lips and emptying my lungs. “What do you do around here, … sorry, I don't think I caught your name.”

He slid his gaze toward mine, and I noticed the scar slicing through his left brow. It went past his eye—but barely—and disappeared into the layer of stubble on his cheek. It was jagged and ugly, likely caused from an even uglier injury. Dad had a scar on his cheek, too, but his had come from protecting Mom an entire lifetime ago, before his time in prison, before he came to River Canyon. Somehow, I wasn't sure this man had acquired his from protecting someone.

Somehow, I wasn't sure he was capable of protecting anyone at all.

Somehow, I knew it was him people needed to be protected from.

A shiver ran up my spine, and I had to remind myself that I didn't know this guy. For all I knew, he'd gotten that big, nasty scar from an unfortunate mishap on a playground when he was a kid.

But I doubted it.

“Abraham,” he said, holding my gaze. He nudged his head toward the door of the old Victorian. “I own this place.”

“So, you're a funeral director?”

“Yes,” he answered simply.

“How long have you been in the business?”

A low sound of contemplation rumbled through his chest as he slowly brought the cigarette to his mouth. His eyes moved toward the parking lot, looking out, as if to gaze into the past.

Then he said, “I guess it's been … huh, twenty-six, twenty-seven years now.” He glanced at me sidelong and added, “About as long as you've been alive, Officer Noah Mason.”

That comment. His tone and the way he looked at me with malice glinting in his steely eyes.

It took me aback, made the breath in my lungs stutter. Made me take half a step backward before I could catch myself.

“What do you, um … do around here?” I asked, regaining control over my composure.

I held the cigarette between my lips as I pulled a notepad and pen from my pocket.

If Abraham had noticed my minor slipup, he didn't let on. Instead, he returned his gaze to the parking lot and said, “A little bit of everything.”

“But you don't keep the records?” I asked as I scribbled down the few bits of information I'd learned about him.

Abraham.

Forties.

Funeral director.

Freaky as fuck, but wouldn't trust Meg to not drool in his presence.