Clearly, HR has no idea what kind of nonsense the new director has been pulling. That alone makes me feel better.
Smiling, I head back to my car. A light, unexpected giddiness rises in my chest. It feels like childhood again, those mornings when we’d be halfway to school during a snowstorm and suddenly hear it was canceled. Nothing ever compared to that rush.
On my way back, I take the long route home. O’Riley’s is already open, cops going in and out with brown paper bags. It’s not just a bar. It’s where officers grab breakfast, lunch, and dinner when they’re on shift.
I leave the car idling as I slow in front of it. I shouldn’t do this. I know I shouldn’t. I’m acting like the character in a movie you want to yell at to stop being an idiot. I need to trust the process. Patrick and his entire family have dedicated their lives to the force, and they won’t let him fall now.
I pull away and drive home.
The moment I step inside, I go straight to the guest room. I need to keep myself busy so I don’t get back in the car and turn around.
In the guest room, I start picturing the nursery. The bed has to go, and the dresser too. Too many sharp edges. With Milo, I learned quickly not to leave anything “for later.”
Later rarely comes until your kid cuts his head open on a table. Maybe Patrick can baby-proof the edges once we settle on the layout.
I open the first drawer. Linens. I pull them out and toss them onto the bed. The second drawer is empty.
The third won’t open.
I tug at the handle, but it is wedged tight. Brow furrowed, I slide the second drawer completely out and lean it against the wall. Reaching inside the dresser, I feel for whatever is blocking it.
My hand hits something hard and smooth wedged along the side.
My heart drops as I pull it out.
Tears sting my eyes the second I see the bottle of vodka. I don’t even recognize the brand. My stomach twists so sharply I have to grab the table to stay upright.
Setting it on the bed with shaking hands, I pull the handle on the drawer again. Now that the blockage is gone, it slides open without a fight and reveals a shelf full of empty bottles.
They’re all different brands of vodka.
I try to get my breathing under control. They could be old… but is that even better? Once an addict, always an addict, right?
Maybe he never stopped. Maybe he was relieved to stay in the guest room. Probably why he never asked to move back into the bedroom. He could drink in peace in here.
I never smelled alcohol on his breath. He probably waited until we were all asleep… and then drank until he passed out. Again.
Surrounded by a graveyard of empty bottles, I know what I have to do.
Chapter Sixteen
Lorelie
“Hi… I need to talk to the owner. Are they here?” I ask as I step up to the counter.
The waitress gives me a long look, her eyes flicking down to my pregnant belly before she jerks her chin toward the back. “Giddish is in the office.”
“Thank you,” I say, pulling my shoulders back as I walk toward the hallway beside the bathrooms.
I pause under the camera. One is pointed straight at the men’s restroom, another higher up aimed toward the women’s. Guess you can never be too careful. You never know if a camera is going to catch an assault… or expose a lying husband.
There’s a plain door beside the exit with a small label that readsManager. My palms go damp. I raise my hand and knock twice.
Silence.
I knock again, a little louder this time.
The door swings open so fast I jerk back. A stocky, gray-haired man stands there. He clears his throat when he takes in the sight of me.
