Page 83 of Almost Ravaged

I swallow past the secondary shame already sinking into my bones. “The family?”

I’m not ashamedofhim, but the depth of our friendship means I can feel his visceral reaction burrowing under my skin.

“I heard the commotion and came out from the back, but they were already gone.”

That’s what I was afraid of.

“When you call Tracy tomorrow, do a bit a digging, will you? Maybe they gave a name, or she remembers how they paid. I’ll ask Bella to check the transactions. If that doesn’t work, I’ll look through Meg’s records. Maybe I can track them down that way.”

Edna’s thin brows rise into her hairline. “And what will you do if we can track them down?”

“Apologize, for starters. Explain the situation and offer to let them bring in a photographer to take their family pictures.”

Edna tuts, shaking her head. “He’s not going to like that.”

Don’t I know it.

“If Noah can’t clean up his own mess, he doesn’t get to criticize how I go about doing it for him.”

The words are harsher than intended. I’m not angry with him. I’m not even angry with the situation.

At the world? Yes. At the unfairness of it all? Abso-fucking-lutely.

His life wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Everything he had going for him, everyone he loved, gone, because of one tragic accident.

I adjust my bag on my shoulder, distracting myself from the pain flaring in my chest. “I’m going up to the house now.”

Edna steps forward and wraps her bony arms around me. “You’re a good boy, Mercer,” she murmurs into the front of my shirt.

Gingerly, I return her hug. When she doesn’t release me right away, I cup her shoulders and consider her. “You’re okay?”

I should have asked that first. I realize that now that I’m thinking properly. I swear my brain short-circuits any time Noah’s wellbeing is involved.

“I’m fine.” She steps back and waves a hand. “I just—” She sighs, once again leaning on the doorjamb. “I just hope it isn’t always this painful for him. The grief will always be there, sure, but I hate to see him hurting this badly for so long.”

“Me, too.” I glance at the house, then turn back to her. “I’ll be here all weekend. Call up to the house if you need me. Or…” I scan the inside of the store again. “I can stay until you lock up?”

“No, no,” she insists. “I’m through. I was just waiting for you. I didn’t want to leave him here alone.”

Once we’ve said our goodbyes, I trek across the gravel lot, past the barn, and up the hill to the house, my feet dragging, as if my loafers have been weighted down.

I knock on the farmhouse door, three hard, loud raps he’ll hear, even if he’s already upstairs. Then, without waiting, I let myself in.

“Noah,” I call into the dark. “It’s me.”

I close and lock the door behind me, then punch the code into the security system. Crouching a little lower, I check the security panel and the smoke and carbon monoxide detectors, then verify that the heat will kick on if it gets too cold tonight. I finish the ritual by taking a picture of the screen and the locked door, just in case he wants to see.

Noah’s been hypervigilant about safety and security since the accident. It’s another way he punishes himself—by obsessing over an incident he couldn’t have prevented in the first place.

He’s been telling himself the same story for nineteen months. Had he been here, he could have prevented it. He could have saved them.

In reality, had Noah been home that night, he would have died right alongside them.

Shoulders slumping, I step out of my shoes. Then I pad up the stairs.

I don’t bother looking at the framed photos I pass. I’ve seen them all, memorized their placement. Meg wasn’t just a great photographer. She had an impeccable eye for design.