The routine at Haven Ridge has become almost comforting.Mornings start with meditation—which I fought like hell against for the first month—then group therapy, where Harry and I have become the unofficial comic relief.After that, the one-on-one sessions that strip me raw but leave me lighter each time.
I’ve gained weight, real weight that makes me look healthier than when I walked into this place, and my hands don’t shake when I hold a coffee anymore.
Harry’s been my anchor through most of this.
Turns out having a roommate who’s as broken as you are—just in a different flavor—is its own kind of therapy.
He’s getting out next week, heading to some Malibu sober-living palace where his family can pretend he’s “healing spiritually” instead of clawing his way back from the edge.
I’m writing in my notebook, lyrics to a song I might someday sing—something Dr.Hawthorne told me to pick up again when I mentioned I used to draw with Jake—when a staff member approaches.
“Nate, you have a visitor.”
I look up, confused.
“Nick’s not supposed to be here till Friday.”
“It’s not Nick.He’s waiting in the visitor’s lounge.”
My stomach knots.There’s only one person who should never know where I am—and if he’s found me here, it’s over.
I walk the hallway with my heart pounding, every step a countdown.
But when I push open the lounge doors, it’s not who I think it’s going to be.The man sitting there is tall, composed, sharp around the edges.Dark hair, wire-rimmed glasses, an English accent that rolls out smooth when he says,
“Nate Sullivan.Finally, we meet.”
“Adrian?”I say slowly, connecting the dots.
Jay’s elusive contact and the ghost in the background who somehow always knew things he shouldn’t.
“Nice to finally meet you in person,” he replies, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
There’s a dangerous calm about him — the kind of man who wins wars without ever raising his voice.
I sit down, unsure why he’s here.
“What are you doing here?”
“Visiting a friend in the program,” he says lightly.“But when I heard you were too, I thought it was finally time we met.I hear you’re getting out soon.”
“Yeah.”
He studies me.“How does that feel?”
I laugh under my breath.“Like I’m walking out of a burning building and leaving half of myself inside.”
He tilts his head, considering.
“Fair.”Then, after a pause: “Still, walking out is the point, isn’t it?”
He reaches into his bag, sets a plain folder and an old phone on the table.His movements are deliberate, almost reverent.
“Your brother was a good kid,” he says.“And this—” he gestures to the folder “—is his final gift to you.His way of finishing what he started.”
I stare at the folder like it might detonate.
“What’s in it?”
