Page 60 of Finding Noah

“If you could do anything,” she began softly, “what would you do?”

I grunted a laugh. “God, I don't know …”

“No wrong answers. You can tell me you want to be Batman, and that'd be okay.”

“Batman, huh?”

Would you like me if I was Batman?

“Anything you want.”

I pulled in a deep breath. “Anything I want …”

“Like, if there weren't any obstacles in your way. No school, no time, no work. You could just snap your fingers”—she snapped hers for effect—“and—poof!—be whatever it is that little Noah Mason wanted to be.”

I snorted and rolled my head against the cot to look at her. “Babe, there isn't anything little about me. Not anymore.”

I winked for good measure, and she rolled her eyes. But I couldn't miss the way her cheeks turned the faintest shade of red beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.

“I'm not touching that comment with a ten-foot pole.”

“Well, I can't say it's ten feet, but …”

“Oh my God, stop. Come on.” She folded her hands in her lap, and, God, she was smiling, her eyes were twinkling, and I had done that. Me. “Answer the question.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, pushing myself back up to sit, facing her. “You promise not to laugh?”

“Cross my heart.”

I swallowed and steepled my hands between spread knees. “I think … if I could be anything … I would be Batman.”

Meg sighed. “Noah, I'm serious.”

I lifted my head to pin her with my stern glare. “So am I.”

The amusement was wiped from her face, and her lips pressed into a soft line as she gave me her full attention. Instantly, I felt on the spot and so, so stupid for my silly confession. Anxiety fueled my need to explain further, to make me seem less like the child she saw me as.

“You know, my dad … my real dad, I mean—”

“I know what you meant,” she interrupted gently, her voice barely above a whisper.

I gave a curt nod as I continued, “He was a piece of shit. I mean, obviously, but even before … before everything happened. And I don't just mean the way he treated us. Like, he hurt my mom, he hurt me, but it was more than that.” I glanced at her, met her eyes, and said, “I don't know how much you know about him.”

She offered an apologetic quirk of her lips and said, “Honestly, not much, apart from what happened that night.”

“Okay,” I said, bobbing my head. “He, uh … God, where do I even start? He was bad, and honestly, I don't even know the extent of how bad he was. None of us do. We don't know everything he got up to. But I know he was a drug dealer. I know he hurt a lot of people. Killed people.”

I winced, thinking about that house. Tommy. That boy. I wouldn't mention it to Meg—I had no intentions of mentioning it to anyone ever—but I couldn't help but think about it. I couldn't help but think about it all the time.

“He killed people?” Then, quickly, she corrected herself by saying, “I mean, I know he tried. But I didn't know he actually—”

“He murdered Soldier's mom,” I told her, feeling weird calling Dad by his first name when I hadn't in years. “And … I don't know for sure, but we assume he killed others.”

Meg's lips parted with a silent gasp, but she didn't look at all surprised. The emotion in her eyes wasn't one of shock but sadness, and I turned away to gaze at the floor.

“He stole from people. He … he raped people,” I uttered in a harsh whisper before clenching my jaw and seething at the memory of finding Mom. Naked. Shaking. Crying. Bleeding.

I could only imagine the moment in which I had been conceived, and at that thought, I squeezed my eyes shut, begging my body to hold on to the croissant I'd eaten.