The Anatomy of Killer

Chapter 17 - Scars

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS ABUSE

"Noah?" I whispered through the closed bathroom door. He didn't answer.

I turned the knob with shaking hands. My thoughts were reeling with what I'd seen on Noah's skin. He was standing with his back to me, grasping the sink basin with white-knuckled hands. I approached him as one would a wounded animal. He looked up and met my eyes in the mirror.

This was the first time that I'd ever seen him cry.

"Noah, I'm sorry." I placed a hesitant hand on his shoulder. "Please talk to me."

He broke eye contact with me.

"Look at me." I spun him around to face me. "Who did this to you?"

"Evelyn, stop. Just stop." He met my eyes again.

I wiped some tears off of his cheeks. He immediately grabbed my hand. I flinched away, but he held it there. "Please tell me. I want to help you."

There was a long silence before he spoke again. "Does me being in nothing but a towel not distract you?"

I shook my head. I moved the hand to trace one of the scars on his chest. "Don't change the subject."

He'd inhaled sharply when I touched him. "Now me being nearly naked is distracting me," he protested. He sighed. "It's a long story, Eve, and not a happy one." That wasn't the first time he'd called me Eve, and I liked him calling me that.

"Put something on and then tell me. It'll feel good to get it off your chest." Who was I to tell someone the value of telling the truth? I'd been lying to him the whole time we'd known each other. Why do you even care? a nasty voice from the back of my mind asked. You've had no problem lying to anyone else. I ignored the voice and backed away from Noah and perched on his bed while he changed.

I lay back on the bed, absorbed in my thoughts. Why do I feel so bad about lying to him? Noah Marx, of all people. The king of liars himself. You care for him, that taunting voice in the back of my head said. I couldn't fall for him! He was the one who killed me and got me into this situation in the first place! Although, before all of the FBI crap began, I'd had this dream of my future if I wasn't a killer, and he was part of it.

My thoughts were interrupted by Noah coming out of the bathroom wearing a pair of dark jeans and a white tee-shirt. My stomach flipped when I saw him. You're whipped, the voice whispered.

Noah looked nervous. "I've never told anyone outside of my family about this before."

I scooted up to the head of the bed and patted beside me. He crawled over to me from the other side of the bed like a little kid climbing into bed with his parents after having a nightmare. We sat there for a moment, shoulders touching. I caught a whiff of his aftershave and my breath caught in my throat. I closed my eyes for a moment. Has he always smelled this good? I wondered.

Finally Noah spoke. "My dad when I was sixteen. Cancer."

"I'm sorry," I whispered, not really knowing what to say.

"I wasn't sad. In fact, I was relieved. We all were." Noah looked at me for my reaction. I looked right back, my gaze even. When I didn't say anything, he continued. He focused his eyes on a spot across the room. He was looking anywhere but me to calm his nerves. "He wasn't - " Noah's voice caught. "He wasn't a good man. You have to understand - "

"I do." I squeezed his arm. "Keep going."

"You remind me so much of her sometimes..." Noah mumbled.