Page 8 of Finding Noah

“Ahh!” the big kid cried. “Dad! Dad!”

“Seth! Let my boy go! Please! Let him go!”

I coughed and choked and sat up in time to watch through the darkness as Daddy threw the big kid into the corner of the room. He held his hand out, and I saw the gun, pointed right at the boy who had just tried to strangle me.

“Daddy! No! Stop!”

“Get out of the house,” he said calmly, never looking in my direction. “Go.”

Tommy was behind Daddy. There wasn't much light in the little room, but I could see his big, scared eyes.

“What are you gonna do?” I asked Daddy, scrambling to stand up.

“Don't you worry about what I'm gonna do,” he replied through a clenched jaw. “Get out of the fucking house.”

“Seth,” Tommy said, squeezing into the room. “I will get you your money, I swear to fuckin' God, all right? Keep my kid out of it. Please. Holy fuck, man. Please. He didn't do anything.”

“Noah!” he yelled. “Go! Now!”

Without taking his eyes off the big kid, now crouched in the corner, crying and cowering, Daddy reached for Tommy, grabbed him by the arm, and shoved him toward his son, leaving the doorway open for me to get through.

“Don't hurt them,” I whispered, the tears continuing to stream down my cheeks. “Please, Daddy.”

But Daddy didn't say anything. He just shoved me past him, back into the dark hallway. I knew he'd be mad at me if I didn't listen, so I did as he’d told me.

I left the house.

Without the bag.

When the door was closed behind me and I was standing once again on the other side of the broken screen door, I sucked in a breath of fresh air as a loud BANG cracked against my eardrums.

And as I fell to my knees, I finally gave in to that feeling in my belly and threw up.

CHAPTER TWO

POISONOUS TOWNS & BROKEN PROMISES

AGE EIGHT

It’d felt like forever before Dad came out of that house two years ago.

I had stood on that crumbling stoop, covered in puke and afraid to do anything but blink, unseeing, toward his truck, waiting for him to finally emerge. And when he did, he didn’t utter a single word to me. He couldn’t even look at me. He just grabbed my shoulder and led me back to the truck, my feet dragging all the way.

There was no bag in his hand.

He didn't have the gun either.

He told me not to tell anyone about what had happened, not Mom or Grandma. Not even Grandpa—and I told Grandpa everything. He said he'd hurt me if I did, he said he'd hurt Mom—although I wasn’t sure it really made a difference because he hurt Mom every single time he saw her.

But still, I had listened.

I never told anyone about what had happened that night.

But he couldn't stop me from thinking about it, and I thought about it a lot.

I knew my dad wasn't one of the good guys. He was mean, he hurt people, and he did bad things. But I told myself he hadn't shot anyone that night, not really. I told myself I had imagined the whole thing. I told myself he hadn't killed anyone because that would've made him a murderer, and that was worse than anything.

Although nothing felt worse to me than when he hurt Mom. Not even the idea of him shooting a kid who had tried to strangle me seemed worse than when he hurt her.