gruff, sometimes cruel ways of his world. Had he hurt her tender feelings irreparably and jeopardized this op to boot?
As he prowled through the apartment, he learned even more about Samara Lyons. He’d known she was close to her family, but he was surprised by the number of photographs, scattered on her walls and every available surface, of people she wasn’t related to … or at least he didn’t think they were related. She obviously had a lot of friends. The stark differences between him and Samara couldn’t have been more apparent.
Her apartment was filled with memories of people she loved. His apartment had no personal pictures or mementos. He had expensive art on his walls, an extensive library filled with rare books and hundreds of DVDs and CDs. And if he never went back, he wouldn’t miss a thing.
Samara’s apartment felt like a home. Soft, colorful chenille pillows decorated her sofa and chairs. The furniture was comfortable and had a broken-in feeling to it, as if she might have bought it secondhand.
Celeste, his decorator and occasional lover, had done his apartment. He’d given her carte blanche to do what she wanted. Since it was just a place he slept, he barely paid attention to his surroundings.
Looking at what Samara had done to her apartment in the short amount of time she’d lived here, he couldn’t help but be impressed. Social workers didn’t make a lot of money. Her parents weren’t wealthy and her background wasn’t one of privilege. Samara had worked for everything she had. That, to Noah, spoke volumes about the kind of person she was. Strong, self-reliant, and determined. Admirable in every way.
A stomach growl reminded him it was time for dinner. With little enthusiasm for what he’d originally looked forward to, Noah browned the ground beef and prepared his sloppy joes. Piling three meat-filled buns onto his plate, he grabbed the potato chips from the cabinet and a soda from the fridge. Sitting at the kitchen table, he wolfed his meal down in grim silence.
His mother had made him sloppy joes every Friday night. She had known they were his favorite and Friday was the only night she could safely do something for him without inviting his father’s wrath.
His father, Farrell Stoddard, had a weekend routine no one dared screw around with. On Friday, after a long day of fishing or hunting, he went carousing, bedded as many women as he could get it up for, and drank himself into a stupor. He’d come home after daybreak on Saturday and sleep all day. Saturday night he’d do what he called his “God-given right” and rape and beat his wife repeatedly. Come early Sunday morning, he’d stand in the pulpit in front of all of God’s sinners and preach a fiery, mind-numbing sermon, demonizing everyone from the government, to other races, to women. Sunday nights, after church, he’d discipline his children in “the way the Lord advised him.” Which, to Farrell, meant beating the shit out of them until they could no longer stand.
His mother left when he was ten and Noah had been glad. Not because he didn’t love her, but because he knew she would finally be safe. He’d tried numerous times to protect her, but always ended up getting beaten instead and he greatly feared the beatings she received were much worse because of his interference.
One day, without a hint of warning, she hugged him and his brother, tears streaming down what used to be a pretty face, and whispered she would come back for them. He’d stood in their barren dirt yard and watched her walk down the black-tarred road. Thin, stooped, and old beyond her years. He had known he’d never see her again. Noah had never felt such loneliness as he had at that moment. Of course, she never returned. And by the time he’d found her, years later, it had been too late.
When Farrell discovered his wife had left him and he couldn’t find her, he returned home and beat both boys until they bled. Then he’d left for three days.
As he prowled through the apartment, he learned even more about Samara Lyons. He’d known she was close to her family, but he was surprised by the number of photographs, scattered on her walls and every available surface, of people she wasn’t related to … or at least he didn’t think they were related. She obviously had a lot of friends. The stark differences between him and Samara couldn’t have been more apparent.
Her apartment was filled with memories of people she loved. His apartment had no personal pictures or mementos. He had expensive art on his walls, an extensive library filled with rare books and hundreds of DVDs and CDs. And if he never went back, he wouldn’t miss a thing.
Samara’s apartment felt like a home. Soft, colorful chenille pillows decorated her sofa and chairs. The furniture was comfortable and had a broken-in feeling to it, as if she might have bought it secondhand.
Celeste, his decorator and occasional lover, had done his apartment. He’d given her carte blanche to do what she wanted. Since it was just a place he slept, he barely paid attention to his surroundings.
Looking at what Samara had done to her apartment in the short amount of time she’d lived here, he couldn’t help but be impressed. Social workers didn’t make a lot of money. Her parents weren’t wealthy and her background wasn’t one of privilege. Samara had worked for everything she had. That, to Noah, spoke volumes about the kind of person she was. Strong, self-reliant, and determined. Admirable in every way.
A stomach growl reminded him it was time for dinner. With little enthusiasm for what he’d originally looked forward to, Noah browned the ground beef and prepared his sloppy joes. Piling three meat-filled buns onto his plate, he grabbed the potato chips from the cabinet and a soda from the fridge. Sitting at the kitchen table, he wolfed his meal down in grim silence.
His mother had made him sloppy joes every Friday night. She had known they were his favorite and Friday was the only night she could safely do something for him without inviting his father’s wrath.
His father, Farrell Stoddard, had a weekend routine no one dared screw around with. On Friday, after a long day of fishing or hunting, he went carousing, bedded as many women as he could get it up for, and drank himself into a stupor. He’d come home after daybreak on Saturday and sleep all day. Saturday night he’d do what he called his “God-given right” and rape and beat his wife repeatedly. Come early Sunday morning, he’d stand in the pulpit in front of all of God’s sinners and preach a fiery, mind-numbing sermon, demonizing everyone from the government, to other races, to women. Sunday nights, after church, he’d discipline his children in “the way the Lord advised him.” Which, to Farrell, meant beating the shit out of them until they could no longer stand.
His mother left when he was ten and Noah had been glad. Not because he didn’t love her, but because he knew she would finally be safe. He’d tried numerous times to protect her, but always ended up getting beaten instead and he greatly feared the beatings she received were much worse because of his interference.
One day, without a hint of warning, she hugged him and his brother, tears streaming down what used to be a pretty face, and whispered she would come back for them. He’d stood in their barren dirt yard and watched her walk down the black-tarred road. Thin, stooped, and old beyond her years. He had known he’d never see her again. Noah had never felt such loneliness as he had at that moment. Of course, she never returned. And by the time he’d found her, years later, it had been too late.
When Farrell discovered his wife had left him and he couldn’t find her, he returned home and beat both boys until they bled. Then he’d left for three days.
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