The penthouse seemed more tense than ever the morning after the altercation with Noah. I sat beside the large windows, the skyline gleaming with apathy for the conflict inside me.
The manila folder I found yesterday disappeared; Noah had stolen it and left behind questions. Questions he turned away from responding.
But curiosity bit me even as resentment boiled under the surface. Noah's admission of his background suggested something more, something hurtful he wasn't ready to disclose. And even now, I longed to know him against myself.
Looking at the stack of unread mail on the kitchen counter, a mix of bills, invites, and impersonal messages, though it was a routine chore, it provided something to concentrate on. One caught me as I sieved through the envelopes: a large, ivory envelope without a return address.
Piqued with interest, I opened it Inside was a single yellowed-edge picture of a modest, generic home showing a little boy and girl standing before it.
The little lad was definitely Noah.
Examining the picture attentively, I saw Noah's face had a solemn look even as a little youngster. Slightly older, the female next to him sported a broad grin with her arm wrapped defensively across his shoulders.
Turning the picture over, I saw a scrawled remark on the rear: "You can't erase the past, Noah."
As I glanced at the message, my heart surged. The handwriting was foreign, purposeful, and lovely. This had been sent by whom? And what implication did that imply?
Though he wasn't in the room, I said "Noah," loudly.
Noah came back to the penthouse mid-afternoon, his typical calm intact. He walked into the kitchen poured himself a glass of water, without looking at me.
I remarked, holding up the picture, "We have to talk."
His motions stopped, the glass lingering midway through. His countenance stiffened the minute his eyes rested on the photo, so gradually he turned to face me.
With a quiet, under control voice, he questioned, "Where did you get that?"
Standing my ground, I said, "It came in the mail this morning." "Care to explain?"
He laid the glass down with precise accuracy, staring at the picture as if it were a menace.
Curtly reaching for it, he remarked, "It's nothing."
I drew it back before he could grasp it. "Don't tell me, Noah. Lie to me. The girl is whirl. And what then does this message imply?
"It's none of your business," he said, his cool front fraying.
"It became my business the moment you dragged me into this mess," I said, fury blazing. "I deserve to know what I'm dealing with if you expect me to participate."
I briefly considered him maybe walking away and hiding behind his walls like he always did. His shoulders soon dropped, however, and he seemed to be fluttering towards failure.
She goes by Emily, he whispered softly. "She belonged to my sister's side."
The disclosure came like a gut-reversal blow. I had not even heard Noah mentioned having a brother.
I said softly, "What happened to her?"
He paused, his eyes falling to the floor. "She passed away when I fourteen years old. a vehicle collision.
I moved closer, the wrath from my voice evaporating. "I'm sorry, Noah."
He shook his head, teeth clenching. " Don't." Not only is the accident involved here. Everything that followed is just that. My family was wrecked by the shame and the blame.
His words lingered strongly in the air, his suffering obvious weight.
"Then, who sent this?" Once again holding up the picture, I asked.
"I don't know," he said, but his voice's tightness indicated otherwise. Still, whomever it is, they are seeking out the past.
The doorbell rang later that evening as I attempted to go through what Noah had said.
Noah responded, his body language tensing right away as he turned to face the guy on the opposite side—a man in his late forties with sharp features and a haughtiness.
The guy whispered softly, "Hello, Noah." It has been a long time.
Noah's mouth closed tightly. "what do you want, Victor?"
Victor. Though I couldn't remember it, the name really resonated.
Victor remarked, his voice full of phoney sincerity, "Just a friendly visit." His eye veered to mine, his grin broadening. And this must be the wonderful Mrs. Blackwood.
Noah stepped in front of me and stated, "Leave her out of this," firmly.
Victor laughed obviously enjoying the response. "Relax, Noah." I am only here to inform you that everyone of us has a history that catches up with us.
Without further remark, he turned and left a path of discomfort behind him.
I turned on Noah as soon as the door closed. "whose was that?"
With a clipped tone, he added, "No one important."
"Don't give me that," I shot back. He certainly knows you and about us. And what's happening, Noah?
He raked his hand through his hair, clearly frustrated in every line of his body. Years ago, Victor was employed by my father. He is only a parasite, always seeking means of personal exploitation.
Then, why is he here right now? I pounded.
"I'm not sure," he said, but the flutter of doubt in his eyes suggested otherwise.
I sat alone in the living room as Noah withdrew to his office, the picture still in my palm.
"You can't erase the past, Noah," the inscription on the rear kept running back in my head.
They were correct whomever had sent it. The past threatened to collapse everything, not just catching up to Noah.
And I asked myself for the first time if I was ready for the secrets I would find.