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“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Ask Darren.” He spits the words at me, and I feel whiplashed by the stark turn in the conversation.
“What does Darren have to do with this?”
His glare is an accusation. “I said leave.”
He storms up the porch steps, yanks the door open, and lets it slam shut behind him.
For too many seconds, I’m frozen in place, gaze locked on the closed door. I need to get moving—police will probably be here to escort me off the property—but ... what just happened?
The incoming call on my phone pulls me out of my stunned state.
“Will, it’s Lacey.” Her voice is a whisper. “We need to talk.”
The rehab center reminds me of the ICU. For a heartbeat, I consider running. My car is packed, ready for the long drive back West, and I could just go.
But I don’t want to run. I’m done with that for good.
Inside the rehab center, a receptionist asks me to fill out a form. While I do, she calls Darren’s room to announce my arrival. Her mouth turns down as she listens to the answer on the other end of the phone.
She hangs up. “I’m so sorry, but he’s not—”
“Tell him I know about Lacey,” I say and brace myself against the desk. “Call him back and tell him that.”
The receptionist’s eyes widen. She slides a gaze left and right. I remove my hands from her desk. “Please. He’s my brother, and I need to apologize for ... a lot of things.”
She swallows audibly and lifts the receiver to her ear. She dials again, and this time, when she uses Lacey’s name, her brows draw together. She hangs up and regards me more curiously. “Room 214.”
I head the way she pointed, passing a living room–type area with a number of residents sitting in a circle and another with tables set up for eating. A part of me half hopes to see Darren among them so we don’t have to do this in a real way. Just a pleasant surface way.
I find him in his room. The TV is on but muted. Two beds are neatly made, but Darren’s alone in the room, sitting on the windowsill and peering out at the parking lot.
“All packed to run again?” His voice sounds like gravel, but there’s a clarity to his words I haven’t heard in too long.
“Not run this time, but yeah, I’m all packed. Heading back to LA for a job.”
“The prodigal son exits.” Darren turns to face me. The bruises have mostly healed, and his pupils are a normal size. His skin is dry and weathered, making him seem closer to fifty than forty, but mostly, he looks like Darren.
“I’m sorry I’ve been MIA these last ten years,” I say, addressing the elephant in the room. “That was shitty of me.”
“Yeah, it was.”
Silence thumps between us. A bluebird lands on a tree branch outside Darren’s window.
“That bluebird is taunting me. I fought its friend at the Inn a few weeks ago. The bird won.”
Darren’s stony expression cuts the words from my throat. My attempt at levity failed miserably. I can’t remember the last time Darren listened to one of my stories, let alone laughed.
Darren and I aren’t close, and we know nothing about each other’s lives.
“How did you find out about Lacey,” he says, his voice crackling with barely restrained emotion.
“I went to visit Terry. To beg him to come back and help Mom.”
“Aah.” Darren turns to look out the window, at the bluebird watching us with a steady gaze.
“Lacey was worried about you. She ... uh ... didn’t know you were in rehab.”
