Chapter 9

The photo is still warm from Noah’s hand when I pick it up. Two boys lean against a battered old pickup, summer sun blown out into white. One of them is Noah—maybe sixteen, lanky, squinting into the light, that same scar along his wrist, newer and angrier. The other— My throat closes. It’s him. Younger, less hollow around the eyes, but it’s him. The man from the truck. From the sea house. From every night. Liam. “Emily.” Noah’s voice snaps across the office like a whip. I...