Joe had offered Nick the first real home of his life. Nick had been young and scared and ready to run; his mother had taught him early
that policemen were the enemy. But he’d had nowhere else to go. His mother’s death and Social Services had given him no options.
You must be Nicholas, Joe had said that day. I’ve got a spare bedroom . . . maybe you wouldn’t mind hanging out with me for a while. My daughters have all gotten married and Louise—my wife—and I are sorta lonely. And with those few welcoming words, Joe had shown Nick the first frayed edges of a new life.
Nick pushed up to his elbows again. It hurt to move; hell, it hurt to breathe. “Hey, Joe. ”
Joe stood quietly beside the bed, staring at Nick through sad, disappointed eyes. Deep wrinkles lined his forehead and bisected his round, dark-skinned cheeks. Long, gray-black hair hung in two skinny braids that curled against the blue checked polyester of his shirt. “You were in a car accident last night. Do you remember it? Joel was driving. ”
Nick went cold. “Christ. Did we hurt anyone?”
“Only you . . . this time. ”
Nick sagged in relief. He rubbed a trembling hand over his face, wishing he could take a shower. He smelled like booze and smoke and vomit. The last thing he remembered was taking a drink at Zoe’s—his fourth, maybe. He couldn’t remember getting into Joel’s car at all.
With a high-pitched scraping sound of metal on linoleum that almost deafened Nick, Joe pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. “You remember the day we met?”
“Come on, Joe. Not now—”
“Now. I offered you everything I had to give. My home, my family, my friendship—and this is what you give me in return? I’m supposed to watch you turn into a drunk? If Louise—God rest her soul—were alive, this would kill her. You blacked out, you know. ”
Nick winced. That was bad. “Where?” It was a stupid question, but it seemed important.
“At Zoe’s. ”
Nick sank back onto the bed. In public. He’d blacked out in public. “Jesus Christ,” he moaned. He could have done it in front of Izzy.
He didn’t want to think about that. He threw the covers back and sat up. At the movement, his stomach lurched and his head exploded. He cradled his head in his hands and leaned forward, staring at the floor through burning eyes until he could breathe again.
“Nicholas, are you all right?”
Slowly, he looked up. It came back to him in bits and pieces: Sally Weaver . . . all that blood . . . Chuck’s wailing voice, it’s not my fault. . . . “Remember when you talked me into going into the academy, Joe? You told me I could help people like my mother. . . . ”
Joe sighed. “We can’t save ’em all, Nicholas. ”
“I can’t do it anymore, Joe. We don’t help people. All we do is clean up bloodstains. I can’t . . . not anymore. . . . ”
“You’re a damn fine cop, but you have to learn that you can’t save everyone—”
“Are you forgetting what I came home to last year? Hell, Joe, I can’t save anyone. And I’m sick to fucking death of trying. ” He climbed out of bed. He stood there like an idiot, swaying and lurching in a feeble effort to stand still. His stomach coiled in on itself, just waiting for an excuse to purge. He clutched the metal bed frame in boneless, sweaty fingers. “You’ll be getting my resignation tomorrow. ”
Joe stood up. Gently, he placed a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “I won’t accept it. ”
“It’s killing me, Joe,” he said softly.
“I’ll agree to a vacation—for as long as you need. I know what you’re going through, and you don’t have to do it alone. But you do have to stop drinking. ”
Nick sighed. Everyone said that. I know what you’re going through. But they didn’t know; how could they? None of them had come home to his blood-spattered bedroom. Even Joe, who had been a full-blown alcoholic before his eighteenth birthday, and who had grown up in the blackened, marshy shadow of a drunken father. Even Joe couldn’t completely understand. “You’re wrong, Joe. In the end, we’re all alone. ”
“It’s that kind of thinking that got you into this mess. Believe me, I know the alcoholic-kid’s code: don’t tell, don’t trust. But you’ve got to trust someone, Nicholas. There’s a whole town here that cares about you, and you have a little girl who thinks you hung the moon. Stop thinking about what you’ve lost, and think about what you have left. You want to end up like your mother, half starved on a park bench, waiting to be killed? Or maybe you want to be like me—a man with two beautiful daughters who moved to the East Coast to get away from their drunken father. ” He pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Nick. “When you’re ready to sober up, here’s the number for you to call. I’ll help you—all of us will—but you have to take the first step by yourself. ”
“You look like warmed-over shit soup. ”
Nick didn’t even look at Annie. “Nice language. They teach you that at Stanford?”
“No, but they did teach me not to drink and drive. ”
He glanced around, ran a shaking hand through his dirty, tangled hair. “Where’s Izzy?”