Chapter 10 - Noah Finally Told Me Why He Chose The Station
We walked the concourse.
Noah carried my coffee because my cane and pride occupied the other hand.
“Why here?”
I asked.
“You worked here?”
“No.”
“You chose the same station your mother left from.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He took too long.
I stopped.
“Noah.”
“I found an old photo.”
I waited.
“Mom and me. On a bench.”
The day she left.
Someone had taken it.
A friend meeting them at the station.
Mara holding Noah.
Twenty years old.
Terrified.
No Walter in frame.
“She kept it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you ask?”
“No.”
I looked at him.
He caught it.
“Yeah.”
Family tradition.
He continued.
“When I started working here, I found the bench area by accident.”
“Same bench?”
“Renovated twice.”
“Good.”
He looked at me.
“I kept thinking if I could get both of you into the same place, one story would crack.”
I stared.
“You staged a reenactment.”
“No.”
“You summoned an old man anonymously to the last place he saw his daughter.”
His face tightened.
“When you say it like that—”
“Never say that sentence to me. It means the description works.”
He almost smiled.
Then:
“I wanted control.”
“You said.”
“I thought if it happened here, I could leave.”
That landed differently.
This station was Noah's territory.
He knew doors.
Cameras.
Stairs.
PA systems.
If the meeting became unbearable, he could disappear into work.
“Did you know your mother would find out?”
“No.”
“How did she?”
He looked embarrassed.
“I told Erin.”
“Your fiancée.”
“Yes.”
“Erin told Mara?”
“No.”
“I told Erin I was meeting you. Erin told me I had to tell Mom before doing something this big.”
“Reasonable.”
“I told Mom.”
“And gave her the time.”
“Yes.”
I stared.
“So you invited me anonymously, then told the person most likely to stop the meeting exactly when I'd arrive.”
Noah sighed.
“I panicked.”
Apparently inherited.
“Why not cancel?”
“Because I wanted to see if you'd come.”
I stopped walking.
“There.”
He looked at me.
“That was a test.”
Noah frowned.
“Maybe.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You gave me a location and waited to see whether I cared enough to appear.”
His face changed.
He heard it.
The family method.
Return if you love me.
Call if you need me.
Come if you care.
“Damn.”
“Yes.”
He laughed once.
Not happily.
“I hate this.”
“Useful.”
“Can you stop sounding pleased?”
“I’m not.”
We resumed walking.
Noah said:
“When Mom told me you were dead, I thought I had no grandparents.”
“Your father's parents?”
“Gone.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged.
“Never knew them much.”
Then:
“When I found out you were alive, I started imagining you as the answer to things.”
I looked at him.
“What things?”
“Why Mom gets weird when I leave.”
“Dangerous.”
“I know.”
“Why she hates people making decisions without her.”
“Also dangerous.”
“Why I feel guilty moving.”
I stopped him.
“That one is yours.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
Did he?
Maybe eventually.
We reached the central departure board.
The same speaker above us clicked for a routine announcement.
Noah glanced up.
I asked:
“Why did you use the PA instead of walking down?”
He looked embarrassed.
“Because I wasn't ready for you to see my face.”
I understood that more than I wanted to.
“Then why order me to stay?”
“Because Jake was leaving.”
“So?”
“I wanted police to get him.”
“And me?”
He thought.
“I didn't want you disappearing before I got downstairs.”
There it was again.
Control disguised as fear of loss.
He caught it himself.
“I’m working on it.”
May you like
“So am I.”
For once, that did not sound like advice.
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