Page 77 of Freedom’s Inferno

He shook his head, a small, broken breath escaping him, half laugh, half exhale. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” I said. “But you deserve closure.”

He looked at me then, his eyes gone glassy, like he fought something he didn’t want me to see. “All right.” He nodded once, almost to himself. “All right, we’ll go.”

I reached over and laid my hand on his arm.

He didn’t pull away.

The rain kept falling, steady and unending, but we had a direction again, however painful it might be.

Chapter 30

Charlie

The rain traveled with us all the way to New Haven, thinning to a mist that seemed to hang in the air rather than fall. The world looked washed out, like someone had turned the saturation down. Wet leaves plastered themselves to windshields, sidewalks, the hoods of parked cars, a thousand small flags waving in the season. Every gust sent a few more spinning loose, gold and russet against a sky the color of dull pewter.

The building was smaller than I’d pictured. Two stories, weathered brick, the paint around the trim chipped and flaking. A small wooden sign by the door read Haven House Sober Living. Someone had planted chrysanthemums along the path, clusters of deep burgundy and gold, their petals heavy with rain. The blooms leaned under the weight, droplets clinging to them like glass beads. A scarecrow slouched in the flowerbed, its straw-stuffed hands outstretched as if in surrender, and a paper ghost dangled from the porch light, curling from the damp.

I killed the engine and listened to the tick of cooling metal. I couldn’t will myself to reach for the door, but Lana didn’t try to rush me.

She sat beside me, hands clasped in her lap, her stillness saying more than any words could.

Finally, I shoved open the door, and the cool air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of wet leaves and laundry detergent. We walked up the narrow path together, shoes slick on the wet stone.

Lana’s shoulder brushed mine as we climbed the steps, the contact brief but grounding. The porch light buzzed, casting our reflections in the rain-slick glass of the door.

She glanced at me once, a silent question in her eyes, but she didn’t say a word.

Inside, the air was warm, scented with coffee and Lemon Fresh. The vestibule opened to a small reception area where a corkboard took up most of one wall. The board was covered in papers: flyers for support groups, church meetings, and handwritten thank you notes. One note in looping blue ink read I made it to Ninety Days.

I tried to swallow past the knot of emotion in my throat.

I had no idea if Gloria Pearson would be there. That letter had been in my possession for over a decade, and for all I knew the woman was nothing more than memory. Maybe I was too late.

A woman at the desk looked up from her paperwork and smiled. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” I said, throat dry. “I’m looking for Gloria Pearson.”

“One moment.” She dialed, then spoke into the receiver with the easy confidence of someone who held the place together every day. “Gloria? There is a gentleman here to see you.” She glanced back at me. “Your name?”

“Charles Sterling.”

The woman’s brows lifted, recognition flickering across her face like a spark she hadn’t expected. Her posture straightened, and a small, knowing smile tugged at her mouth, like she was finally seeing the ending to a story she’d heard before. She picked up the phone, her eyes still on me as she spoke into the receiver.

“Gloria? You’re not going to believe this,” she said, her tone softening with something close to awe. “Charles Sterling is here.”

I stood there, not sure what to do with the look on her face. It twisted something in my gut, equal parts shame and disbelief. My mother must’ve talked about me enough for my name to linger here all these years, hanging in the air like dust that never settled. I kept my hands in my pockets while we waited to hide that they were trembling.

Lana stood a little behind me, close enough that I could feel her presence without looking. She didn’t speak, didn’t touch me, just existed there in silent solidarity.

A few minutes later, a door opened down the hall and a woman emerged. She was older, maybe in her seventies, with close-cropped gray hair and a calm, measured way of moving. Her expression softened when she saw me.

“You must be Charles Sterling,” she said, voice warm but steady. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you walk through that door.”

“It took me a while to find the courage,” I said, glancing briefly at Lana beside me.

Gloria’s gaze shifted between us, and understanding showed in her expression. “Well, you’re here now. That’s what matters.” Her gaze moved to Lana, accepting her without question, then returned to me. “I’m glad you have support,” she said. “You can follow me.”