Page 9 of Finding Noah

But it wasn't okay to kill him.

He didn't kill him.

I closed my eyes to the lines painted on the road as they zipped by and wished I could just stop thinking about it. I had been six when that happened. That was two years ago. Two whole years, and I still couldn't go through a single day without hearing the volume of the shot ringing through the night.

Mom always knew something was wrong. She had known something had happened. She knew I was different the second Dad finally brought me home. She wouldn't stop asking me what was wrong, and when I wouldn't tell her, Grandma and Grandpa asked me too. But I kept telling them nothing, nothing, nothing had happened, but no matter how many times I said it, no matter how many times I lied, they kept on asking.

Then, when I wouldn't tell any of them, Mom made me talk to someone else. He was a doctor, she said, except he didn't look like a doctor. His name was Mark, and he wore jeans and T-shirts and called me pal.

He said he liked me, and I liked him, too, but I wouldn't tell him anything either because what if Dad found out? What if he hurt Mark? What if he killed him because of me?

But I did tell Mark some things. Not about that. But … things.

About the kids at school and how they teased me.

How they told me my dad was bad, even though I already knew.

How they knew Mom had been really young when she had me.

They called her a slut.

They said their parents called her a slut too.

I didn't even know what that word meant until they told me.

Mark talked to Mom. They thought I couldn't hear them talking through his office door, but I could.

He thought I needed to transfer to a new school. He thought it was a good idea for us—me and her—to have a fresh start. He thought we'd be better off getting away from our town—the only one I had ever really known in my entire life—away from Grandma and Grandpa, to find a new life somewhere else.

I’d really liked Mark at first, but I started to hate him after that.

I didn't want to move away from Grandma and Grandpa. I would say I didn't want to move away from Aunt Stormy either, but she had moved away a while ago. Actually, I didn't think I would mind if we moved to Salem to be with her, but no. Mom had to pick some stupid town called River Canyon or something dumb like that.

She said we'd have our own little house. She said I'd have my own room instead of sharing one with her. But I didn't care about sharing one with her. I was okay with that, and besides, now that Aunt Stormy lived somewhere else, Grandma had said I could move into her room anyway. I didn't need to find a room in another town.

But Mom made me leave anyway.

I wanted to hate her the way I hated Mark. But no matter how hard I tried, I wasn't sure I could really hate Mom. Still, as we drove down the highway in her noisy, old car, I wished I could.

At least I'm not thinking about Dad, I thought.

Wait. Now I'm thinking about him again.

I groaned and slumped deeper into my seat. I missed Grandma. I missed Grandpa. I missed their stupid old bird even though he always tried to bite me.

“Hey,” Mom said, glancing into the backseat as she pulled up to a red light. “You okay?”

“No,” I muttered, shaking my head.

She tried to smile. “I know. I'm not either.”

“Then why are we moving?”

“Because we need this, baby.”

I scrunched my nose up and shook my head. “No, we don't.”

The light turned green, and we started to drive.