Seconds to Live(54)

“Good question.” Her gaze darted to his arms.

“I never did heroin, if that’s what you’re curious about.”

“No?”

“No. My drug of choice was oxy. I had this buddy in high school who introduced me to it. His father dealt the stuff in a major way. Looking back with the hindsight of an adult, I realize that I was pretty depressed and frustrated. I was the only kid left at home by that point, and my Mom wasn’t well. We didn’t know at the time she had cancer. I thought she was worn out from taking care of my dad and didn’t have any energy left for me. No one was really on top of things at that point.”

“So you were alone with two very sick parents. How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you.” Her voice held too much sympathy for his comfort.

“I didn’t mean to unload on you.”

“That’s what real friends are for.”

Mac did not want to be friends with Stella.

She slid her hands to the top of the steering wheel and drummed her fingers. “Did you belong to NA?”

Mac watched the blur of trees pass by. “I tried it, but sharing my problems with strangers never appealed to me. My brother, Lee, the one who was killed last year, dragged me to my mother’s deathbed and made me swear to her that I’d straighten out. Later, anytime I felt tempted, I’d visit her grave.”

Grief bloomed in Mac’s chest. His mom’s illness and death had torn him apart. Except for Lee’s funeral last year, he hadn’t been to the cemetery in years. Because he hadn’t needed to be reminded of his promise? Or because he couldn’t bear to be reminded of her death? He was dreading the Colonel’s funeral.

“Are you sure you want to go out here with me?” Stella’s concerned gaze felt like a touch. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking on his part.

“I’ll be fine.” He certainly didn’t want her going alone. His memory of Adam Miller reacting to her questions was too fresh, as was the bruise on her face.

For a guy who never had much of a temper, Mac was feeling uncharacteristically violent. Stella brought out his uncivilized side, not that it was buried all that deep.

He was sure Stella was trained in hand-to-hand, and in no way did Mac think women were weak. His sister was one of the toughest people he knew. But he couldn’t control the urge to protect Stella. The emotions stirring in his chest worried him. He could get attached to her. He had enough commitment issues with his family, and Scarlet Falls was a huge pot of bad luck for him. Did she feel something for him? And if she did, how could he walk away from the potential?

The highway narrowed to two lanes. They passed meadows and patches of woods. Ten minutes later, Stella turned down a forest-lined gravel lane. They passed a lake and an old stone barn set back off the road.

The lane ended in a tight clearing. A split rail fence defined the parking area. The main lodge was a two-story cedar rectangle with a deep, covered porch. Appropriately, Adirondack chairs were grouped around low tables. Two men playing chess looked up as Mac and Stella got out of the car. The New Life Center for Hope looked more like a resort than a rehab facility.

They went up the steps and crossed the porch. Mac held the door for Stella. In the reception area, a thirty-year-old man typed on a computer. A folder lay open on the desk.

“Can I help you?” He said in a southern accent as he closed the folder. A brass plaque on the front of his desk read Reilly Warren.

Stella showed her badge. “Detective Dane. I have an appointment to see Dr. Randolph.”

Reilly glanced at his phone. A red light blinked. “He’s on a call, but he should be done in a few minutes.”

Stella ignored the row of chairs in the lobby. “How long have you worked here?”

“Three years.” Reilly folded his hands on his blotter.

“You don’t sound like you’re from around here.” Mac picked up a pamphlet from a wall rack.

Reilly straightened his row of office supplies. “I’m from Atlanta.”

Stella flashed him a warm smile. “Do you like working for Dr. Randolph?”

He adjusted the position of his stapler a millimeter. “Yes.”

“The center is highly recommended.” Mac tucked the brochure back into its slot.

“Josh is good at what he does,” Reilly said.

“But patients relapse, right?” Stella sounded innocent as she pried information out of the admin.

Reilly straightened a stack of Post-it packs. “Josh can only do so much.” He glanced at the phone. The red light had gone out. “He’s done.” Reilly slid out of his chair. Then he carefully lined up the armrests with his keyboard tray before straightening. “Follow me.”