Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
“What can I do?” I asked.
I could see that the answer was “nothing,” but that he knew that wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “Go back home,” he said finally. “Let us do our jobs and we’ll let you know what we find out.”
I stood up. “I guess you need a lift?” I asked Mike.
“I’ll get a ride with Jason,” Mike said. “Just take care of yourself.”
I sighed, walking out the door with no action items to attend to. It was dark already, and the hours I wasted at the police station had brought me no closer to a resolution. Maybe the officer would find her at home, and she would explain that she had developed an aversion to me. It didn’t seem likely, but the scenario gave me hope. Wherever she was, I hoped she was okay.
With nothing to do and nowhere to go, my thoughts immediately bent toward getting high. It would be a perfect accompaniment to the failure of my closest relationship. I was an addict—didn’t I know by now that I couldn’t have anything good?
My three weeks of training in the recovery program kicked in, and I drove home to get my crisis plan. It felt wrong. I should be out turning over rocks and searching creek beds, but instead, I was dealing with my own bullshit. I told myself that calling my peer mentor was a better choice than getting drunk or high, but my heart wasn’t in it. Still, I climbed the stairs to my attic room, to the last place I had seen Gina.
The sheets still smelled like her, like us. I hadn’t washed them, and depending on how the night unfolded, maybe I never would. I thought about the dumpster. The trash had been emptied, but maybe my garbage bag had somehow been forgotten. Maybe it was worth a climb through the rubbish to find a hidden score.
Instead, I went straight for the bureau, where my crisis plan was lying beneath two folded shirts. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number, holding my breath until a familiar voice answered.
“Hey, this is Porter,” I said. “From Westview.”
“Yeah, Porter,” the older man said. “I remember. How’s life treating you?”
“Not so good,” I answered. “I feel like I need a drink or a score.”
“It’ll pass.”
“I need one real bad,” I insisted.
“What’s that gonna help? Who is that gonna help?” he argued, as if he had done it millions of times.
“Me,” I snarled.
“Is it? Is it really going to help you? Or is it going to give you one more thing to be ashamed of in the morning?” His words cut me to the core. He was right; I had no business getting drunk or high. It would help no one—not the police, not Gina, and certainly not me.
“But…” I tried again, desperate to feel some relief. “I have all these feelings that I don’t know what to do with.”
“Talk about them,” came the simple answer.
“I can’t.” I had already told the police the whole story; if I ratted on myself to the sober community, I would find myself with no friends left.
“Can you write them down or sketch them out?” he suggested. “You don’t have to talk to me. Anyone will do.”
I hesitated, and he could hear my indecision over the phone.
“Can you get to a meeting?” he offered finally.
“There’s not one in Singer’s Ridge,” I said, thinking hard. There was only the Monday evening meeting at St. Mary’s.
“Hang on.” There was some shuffling at the other end of the line, then, “There’s a 7:00 p.m. in Greenwood. Can you get there?”
“Yeah.” I was out the door before hanging up.
26
GINA
George began muttering to himself. I leaned forward to catch the drift of what he was saying but couldn’t make out anything. With horror, I realized that he was beyond rationality. Whatever substance he was on was spurring him to make the worst possible decisions.
“Listen, George,” I tried, inching to the edge of the seat to be closer to him. “You’re in trouble, I get it. We can figure this out. I have some credit cards; I could get a cash advance.”
He continued mumbling, not turning toward me. I was hoping that I could break through and penetrate the haze of his intoxication, but it wasn’t working. He refused to acknowledge my existence, bent on whatever communication he was having with his own demons. Desperately, I cast my eyes around, looking for a solution. If I couldn’t reason with him, maybe I could make a run for it.
I reached for the door handle, my wrists sweating beneath their bindings. I had the door open and one leg out when George leapt from the driver’s seat, pivoted, and brought the gun up to my nose. I stopped, falling back against the chassis.
“Get back inside,” he growled.