Page 71 of Finding Noah

This wasn't about stealing a six-pack of beer. It never was.

“What's your dad's name, Matt?”

He wiped his tears with his sleeve. “Anthony.”

I nodded. “Can I trust you to wait right here?”

“Yeah,” he muttered.

“You're not gonna run the second I walk away to talk to my partner over there?”

He shook his head, and I laid a hand against his shoulder, rubbing lightly.

“All right, buddy. Hang out over here for a couple of seconds. I'll be back.”

Dad and Patrick lingered by a display of baked goods, mumbling among themselves while keeping their eyes pinned on me. Now that I was walking away from Matt, Patrick kept his glare on the kid, who had now found a seat on the window ledge.

“You're not writing that kid up,” I told Patrick. “His mom died. His dad's taking it out on him. He's acting out.”

Patrick grunted as he nodded. “Sad.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It is.”

“So, what are you thinking, Officer Mason?” Dad asked, lifting one side of his mouth into a knowing smile. “What's the solution?”

I exhaled, puffed out my chest as I crossed my arms, and said, “Well, I think, first, you're gonna agree to not press charges.”

“All right. Agreed,” he replied, folding easily.

“And, second, you and I”—I turned toward Patrick—”are gonna drive him home and sit there while he and his old man have a good ol’ heart-to-heart.”

The look of pride on Dad's face made my heart soar as Patrick nodded approvingly.

“All right, Officer Mason,” he said, clapping Dad's shoulder in lieu of a goodbye before walking away, “let's go drive the little thief home.”

***

“Dad told me you did good today,” Meg commented as I walked her to her car after her shift was over.

I huffed a chuckle. “I do good every day.”

She shook her head at my feigned arrogance and clutched her tote bag tighter to her side. “No, seriously. He was really proud of the way you handled that kid at The Fisch Market,” she went on, keeping her eyes on the ground.

A heavy silence hung in the air, begging to be lifted and brightened with jokes. I didn't say anything though, sensing that there was something she was holding back, not putting it out there … but why?

How could I read that kid at the store so well, but not this woman I'd spent much of my time with? How was she still such a mystery? And why didn't I mind that at all—that there was always something new to figure out, something else to discover about her?

Even the subtlest things, like the way that streetlamp right there reflected off her golden-blonde curls and pulled out the tiniest, nearly indiscernible hint of copper. I'd never seen that before. Never noticed. And that made me wonder … if I was still discovering things about her eight years later, what else would I learn in the next eight?

Eight years.

Holy crap, it had been eight years since that night. Eight years since Dad had been murdered and brought back … twice. Eight years since I'd run through the streets in the soaking rain to find help, her voice a guiding beacon of light all the way.

“I'm proud of you too,” Meg said finally, tearing me from my thoughts.

“What?” I asked, stopping in my tracks and turning to face her.

She cleared her throat and looked up to my eyes. “I said, I'm proud of you too. For … everything. Not just today, but … all of it. You have been through more than most people ever will in their lives. Most people buckle under that type of trauma. But … here you are. It's …” She shook her head, her curls dancing with the movement. “I don't think you realize how amazing that is.”