Page 101 of Her Ex-Husband's Brother

“Oh, I did. I assumed you’d given up on coming along after so long. Buckle up.”

As soon as he closes the door, I resume backing out before he’s fully settled.

“Hey!”

I accelerate hard enough that he has to grab the dashboard.

The sign outfront calls it a behavioral health hospital, which is a very polished way of describing a locked place where people get put after everyone else decides they’re too much trouble.

Inside, it’s worse than I expected but not as dramatic as I feared.

There are no screams echoing from behind locked rooms, and it isn’t quite Soviet-bloc-level depressing, but the dingy cream-colored walls and harsh fluorescent lighting aren’t exactly inspiring.

It feels like the kind of place where you get dumped when you don’t have anyone powerful enough to insist you deserve better.

At the front desk, a woman in navy scrubs asks for my name without looking as though anything could surprise her anymore.

“I’m here for August Gallagher,” I say. “I was told he might be cleared for discharge. I’m available to provide transportation, and I need to speak with whoever is coordinating his discharge plan.”

I Googled the language in the parking lot so I would sound like I knew what the hell I was doing.

The woman’s expression does not change.

“Do we have his authorization to speak with you?”

I pause, my fake confidence faltering. “I…don’t know.”

“Then I can’t confirm or deny whether anyone by that name is a patient here.”

I bite my bottom lip.

She returns her attention to her computer, completely dismissing me.

“Can you take him a message?” I ask. “Please tell August Gallagher that Lennon is in the lobby. Tell him I’m here to help with his discharge plan and provide transportation. If he wants to authorize the staff to speak with me, I’ll sign whatever I need to sign.”

I hesitate.

“And tell him I came inside alone.”

For the first time, her face softens by half an inch.

“I can pass along the message. I still can’t confirm whether he’s here.”

“Understood.”

She types rapidly for several seconds, then gestures toward the waiting area.

“Have a seat.”

It’s almost fifteen minutes later when the locked door buzzes open.

I stand so quickly that my purse slides off my shoulder.

August comes through the doorway beside a nurse in pale-blue scrubs. He’s wearing his own shirt and jeans, but his bootsare unlaced. He holds a clear plastic bag containing his wallet, his phone, his belt, and both bootlaces coiled at the bottom like dead worms.

He looks too big and too pale beneath the fluorescent lights of the antiseptic hallway.

And too motionless, as though he knows every movement is still being judged.