Page 106 of Finding Noah

Where did he get his scar? I questioned, but I knew I’d never ask. It wasn’t any of my business.

So, instead, I had to focus on closing the door on my own recurring nightmare, and I hoped Shawn could assist in doing just that.

“Anyway,” he said with a melancholy smile as he brushed the past aside, “what can I help you with? You said something about a man brought in here … how long ago was it again?”

“Twenty years,” I replied. “He died from a gunshot in October two decades ago.”

Shawn folded his hands on the desk, nodding solemnly as his eyes held on to a black pen laying on a sheaf of papers. “Twenty years,” he repeated, pressing his lips tightly together. “I can't guarantee we still have the records from that far back.”

“I know it was a while ago,” I said, fishing into my pocket for the picture of Tomas I'd printed out from his obituary. “But any information you can give me would be very appreciated.”

I unfolded the sheet of paper and slid it onto the desk for Shawn's perusal.

If it sparked a memory, he didn't let on as he took it within his grasp.

“What was his name?” Shawn asked, then seemed to realize I'd written it below the photograph. “Tomas Nolan?”

I nodded. “His full name was Tomas Jefferson Nolan. He went by Tommy, maybe Tom.”

He stared for a moment, his brows pinching with frustration as he emitted a sigh. “Twenty years ago … I gotta tell you, the name isn't ringing a bell. Leonard—my father”—he gestured toward the picture on the wall again—”would've handled the funeral arrangements, and he's been gone now for six, almost seven years.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I said while the disappointment and discouragement took life in my chest, crowding my heart.

“Um …” Shawn laid the picture on the desk and nudged it toward me with his fingertips. “I can try and search our records,” he said, turning toward the computer. “I will say though, not everything made it into our database. Leonard did everything by hand until I finally convinced him to get a computer, and that was only after he got too old to protest … much.”

He swung a tired look in my direction, and I responded with a chuckle.

“My grandpa is the same way,” I said. “He was using one of those old flip phones until my mom forced him to join this century, like, five years ago.”

Shawn laughed. I liked the sound of it. It was warm and friendly, a stark contrast to Abraham's threatening facade. I would've bet anything Shawn did more business with the public than his older brother.

“I didn't even know they still made those things,” Shawn replied, half paying attention as he began typing.

He took hold of the mouse and tapped around a bit, using the wheel to scroll. The gentle noises added a monotonous soundtrack to the otherwise quiet room as his eyes scanned the screen, gnawing a bit on his bottom lip.

He puffed his cheeks out with an exhale, then turned to glance at the picture I'd printed out, using his finger to tap on the name I'd scribbled on the page.

“That's right. Tomas with no H,” he muttered, seemingly to himself, then turned back toward the computer to type some more.

I was trying not to breathe heavily, sitting at the edge of my seat. I tried to shift slightly to catch a peek of the screen, hoping something useful would pop up. But the screen was turned too far out of view, and I was forced to resign myself to clamping my lips between my teeth and wringing my hands together.

Shawn twisted his mouth to the side as he slowly began to shake his head, and any hope I'd allowed to thrive was shot down.

“I'm sorry,” he said, swiveling his chair to face me once again. “There's nothing on the computer.”

“What about, um … do you keep any physical records of—”

“We do,” he replied before I could finish. “But anything that old would've been shredded. I never saw much reason to keep hard copies of anything older than five years or so.”

“I understand,” I replied with a sigh.

Shawn watched as I folded Tomas's picture and tucked it back into my pocket. He looked up into my eyes, and I appreciated the kindness he held in his gaze.

“It's none of my business, and you don't have to answer, but … what are you looking for?” he asked, narrowing his eyes and tipping his head in question.

My mind hurried to conjure an explanation before I replied, “Just a, um … cold case I'm working on.”

“A bit out of your jurisdiction, isn't it?” He sat further back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach, looking at me with genuine curiosity.