Page 54 of Finding Noah

I wondered if Miles would be as tall as him one day. I wondered how much he’d look like him.

Things I’d never be.

Sergeant Kinney took the keys from his pocket and was about to unlock the cell when Dad held up his hand.

“Don’t,” he told him, and my lips fell open with a silent protest. “Can I have a moment alone with my son?”

Sergeant Kinney swallowed, his sympathetic eyes lingering on me for a moment before swinging upward as he nodded. “Sure, Soldier. Just give me a holler when you’re ready.”

Swiftly, he headed back down the hall, and when I figured he was out of hearing distance, I whispered, “Can we talk at—”

“You’re not coming home,” Dad cut me off harshly, speaking through a clenched jaw. “Not tonight. So, get that idea out of your head. Whatever you want to say to me, you can say it now.”

My face fell. “The hell do you mean, I’m not coming home tonight? What? Why?”

He took a step closer, as close as the bars between us would allow. “Because this right here shouldn’t be happening.”

Stupidly, I shrugged and lifted my hands, as if to say, I don’t know what you mean.

“Jesus Christ, Noah,” he muttered between gritted teeth, unwinding his arms to squeeze the back of his neck. “I shouldn’t be getting a call to tell me my son’s been arrested. I shouldn’t be standing here, talking to him through fucking bars.”

My gaze dropped to the dingy floor.

“Everything I’ve fucking been through … I hoped it would be enough to keep my kids from getting in trouble, but I guess I was wrong,” he said, his voice heavily laden with frustration.

The sting of his disapproval was swiftly wiped away with the strength of my anger, and I murmured, “Maybe that’s because I’m not your kid.”

Dad took half a step back with his bad leg. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” I went on, knowing I’d already pushed too hard, too far, but still, I nodded as I spoke. “Your kid … he’s at home, probably with my mom, who sent you here instead of facing me herself, like a fucking coward—”

“Watch your fucking mouth.” Dad thrust his finger through the bars, pointing directly at my face. “You will not say this shit about your mother. You will not think that shit about her. She is anything but a coward, and you, of all people, know it.”

I pressed my lips together in a tight, firm line. Because he was right. I did know it, and I regretted letting those words pass my lips.

But I was too proud to say that aloud.

“I’m going to forget you said anything,” Dad went on, “because I know you don’t mean any of it. You’re drunk, you’re pissed off, and you’re fucking embarrassed of your behavior … as you should be. And that’s exactly why I’m going to ask Patrick to keep you here—”

“For how long? A few hours?” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest and holding them there tight.

Dad was quiet for a moment, as if considering his options, before saying, “The weekend.”

I looked up then, shocked. “It’s Friday!”

“Yeah,” he replied, nodding. “I know. Hopefully, a weekend in here will give you some time to think about the shit you’ve been doing lately. Maybe you’ll reconsider taking the road you’ve been on.”

“What the hell am I going to do in here for two fucking nights?!” I cried, my heart racing and my mind spinning with every insult and hateful word I’d ever learned.

“You’ll think of something,” Dad said, reaching through the bars to lay a hand against my cheek, and although I wanted to punch him in the face, I also had to resist the urge to lean into his comforting touch. “If I could manage for nine years, I think you’ll survive a couple of days.”

***

Nine years.

Dad was locked up for nine years, I thought for the millionth time as I stared ahead at the blank cinder-block wall of the cell—my home for the weekend.

He had been sentenced to even more than that. I had Googled his name a couple of times; I had read the articles and the reports. He had been convicted of involuntary manslaughter and possession of an uncontrolled substance with the intent to sell, and he was sentenced to thirteen years but got out on good behavior.