Page 99 of Finding Noah

Meg: LOL, be nice!

Me: I’m just saying, I’ve been sitting here, drinking coffee with him for twenty minutes in the most awkward silence ever experienced, and he hasn’t made one attempt at having a conversation.

Meg: And YOU haven’t tried talking to him because …?

Me: Social experiment.

Meg: Oh my God, Noah. Don’t be mean.

Me: And what exactly should I say to him?

Me: “Hey, dig any good holes lately?”

Meg: Oh, I don’t know, Detective … you could … hmmm … ask him about a certain funeral home maybe?

I looked up from my phone screen to glance across the table at Charlie Corbin, the man my aunt had chosen to spend her life with. His wavy hair hung in curtains against the sides of his long face today, not in the loose knot he’d worn last night. He looked like he wanted to hide, to cover himself with all that hair, and I wondered if it was me. If I made him nervous. If my presence set him too far outside his comfort zone and stable routine.

Judging by the way he wouldn’t meet my eye, I guessed I was right.

Someone else might’ve considered him suspicious, that his demeanor was off-putting and questionable. But I knew better. He was a victim of his own traumatic past. He suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. He hadn’t said as much, nor had Aunt Stormy confirmed, but it didn’t take an expert profiler to figure that one out. There was likely an anxiety disorder in there as well, maybe even agoraphobia to an extent.

And now, sitting here, crowding his space and penetrating the safe world he had built for himself, I felt bad for not booking a hotel room instead.

Still, Meg had made a good point.

Uncle Charlie must’ve had some dealings with The Llewellyn Family Funeral Home, considering he’d been the groundskeeper at this cemetery for however many years—well over a decade at least. It might be helpful to ask a few questions. But I didn’t want to raise suspicion about why I was really here, out of fear that he’d talk to Aunt Stormy, who’d then call my parents.

I didn’t need anyone worrying needlessly.

Me: He’d ask why I’m asking.

Meg: Good point.

Meg: You could mention that your friend needs to do something there. I don’t know. Hold on. Let me think for a second.

Me: No, wait. I got it.

Meg: What?

I cleared my throat and lowered my phone, startling Charlie from the important task of draining his second cup of coffee. He looked up, lips shut and eyes alert.

“Sorry,” I said, slipping my phone into my jacket pocket. “I was just gonna say, I guess I should get going.”

He blinked for a moment, as if to gather his bearings, then nodded. “Where, um … where did you say you were headed today?”

“To see an old friend,” I said. “But he had a death in the family last night—”

“Oh, that’s … that’s too bad.” Charlie’s brow furrowed, a solemn expression on his face.

“Yeah, it was unexpected,” I said, realizing acutely how easy it was to lie. “So, I thought I’d do a little sightseeing until he was finished at the funeral home.”

I hoped Charlie would ask which funeral home it was. I hoped he’d show interest. But he didn’t. He only nodded, letting the conversation enter an awkward lull, like I’d given him more information than he’d asked for.

Shit.

“I told him I’d take him to coffee after,” I said with a sheepish laugh and a shrug, then stood from the chair. “Like that makes it better, right?”

He grunted, offering a sad quirk of his lips. “It’s nice to have someone though. F-for him, I mean.”