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But it’s not him. It’s his son.Noah.
CHAPTER
41
My entire body shakes.
But it’s not fear. It’srage, raw anger searing through my veins.
“Whatthe fuckis wrong with you?” I scream. A few Polaroids are still in my hands. I clench my fists and crumple them into a ball. “Do you get off on it? Reminding women who’ve finally moved on what was done to them?” My eyes widen, a horrible thought occurring to me. “Oh my God. Are you doing this toallof us? All the girls in the photos?”
Noah’s eyes drop to the floor, to the splatter of Polaroids strewn all over the carpet. His face changes. Anger morphs into something else—a moment of indecision, almost confusion. He opens his mouth, but says nothing as his pupils dart between the photos and my face. “What are you talking about?”
“Give me a fucking break! I’m not buying the innocent act anymore.” I gesture to the photographs littering the floor, hold up the several still in my hand. “Hedeservedto die. He preyed on young girls who weredesperate, who needed love and attention and would take it however they could get it. So I’mnotsorry. Not even a little. I’mgladhe couldn’t do it to anyone else.”
Noah shakes his head. “I don’tunderstand . . .”
“How did you know about the pregnancy? Is there a journal somewhere?” I turn, ripping everything out of the nightstand I’ve already gone through, tossing the contents over my shoulder as I go. The first drawer empties, so I whip open the next, but it’s still empty. Desperate, I run to the nearby dresser, open it, and keep flinging things. When there’s nothing left in those drawers, I turn. “Where is it? I know it’s here somewhere!”
“What journal? What pregnancy?” He just stands there, pretending he doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about.
I laugh maniacally. “Oh, you’re good. Almost as believable as that sick fuck of a father of yours. But I’m not a little girl anymore. And you’ve both taken so much from me, I have nothing left to lose.” I march toward Noah, brush my shoulder with his as I round the bed to the other side. He stays in place as I yank open the second nightstand, pull out everything, just like I did the first. After, my eyes flit around the room, looking for more places to search. “Where is it?Where the fuck is it?”
“I don’t have any journal.”
“Is it a notebook, then? An electronic file? What did he leave behind that you’ve used to write the chapters you’ve been sending me,Hannah?”
His forehead creases. “Elizabeth, I can see you’re upset, but I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Nice try.” My eyes land on a book on top of the dresser, and it reminds me . . . books, shelf—the office! Why didn’t I start there? I bet that’s where it is. Without another word, I run out of the bedroom and bolt down the stairs.
Noah chases behind me. “Where are you going?”
I march into the office and start with the bookshelves, tearing each book, one by one, from the neat rows.“Where is it? Where the fuck is it?”
Noah comes to a stop in the doorway, watching me as though he’s afraid to come in.Smart man.Because even I don’t know what I’m capableof right now.
“I’m not sure what’s going on, but why don’t we sit down and talk about it? Clearly you’re upset . . .”
This is taking too long, so I wipe the second shelf clean by reaching in and sweeping everything to the floor. Then I do the same to the third and fourth. The case is empty, but that’s not good enough, so I pull at it, trying to bring it down. When it doesn’t budge, I lift a leg, press my foot against the wall on the side for leverage, and yank harder.
Noah puts a hand on my shoulder. “Elizabeth, stop. It’s screwed to the wall.”
I jump back.“Don’t touch me! Don’t fucking touch me!”
He holds his hands up, actually looking nervous. “Okay, okay.”
I move on and empty the contents of two more tall shelves while Noah watches. There are piles of books knee-deep now, and I try to trudge through them to get to the other side of the room, but I trip and fall two steps in, landing on top of the pile.
Noah rushes over. He reaches out a hand to help me, but I slap it away. This time, he doesn’t back off. Instead, he secures my hands in front of me and wraps me in his arms while I kick and scream, trapping me against him.
“Shhh,” he whispers. “It’s okay. Let me help.”
“I don’t want your help! Get off me.”
He holds me tighter. “I’m not letting go until you calm down, Elizabeth.”
“I fucking hate you!”