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Griffin looks at the outstretched hand, then shakes it. “We met before at the hospital. DS Nate Griffin.”
Griffin sees the laptop open and glances over.
“What are you looking at?” He sees the name on the report. “Patrick’s PM?” He looks quickly at Jess. “You shouldn’t be reading this.”
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
Jess hesitates. If he’s seen this, then what else has he read? What else does he know? She’s angry, she wants to have it out with Griffin, to shout at him for not telling her, but also for his continued reticence, his reluctance to open up to her. But Nav’s here.
And she sees something else.
She’s come to know the dark behind his eyes, the way he moves depending on what sort of pain relief he’s on. The right drugs and he’s looser, calmer. The wrong ones—alcohol, nicotine—and he’s like this. The anger intensifies. The pain only adds fuel to the fire.
“Nav,” she says, “you need to go.”
Nav stares at her. She sees she’s hurting him again. “I’ll be in touch,” she adds. “I promise. Give me your number.”
Nav glances to Griffin. He’s turned away, ignoring them. Nav frowns, then leans down next to her, writing his phone number on a piece of paper and handing it to her as he goes to leave. Jess follows him to the door.
She opens it and Nav steps out into the hallway.
“I don’t like this, Jess. Not at all.” He pauses, looking back into the apartment. “What’s he on?” he adds in a whisper.
“What do you mean?”
“I know an addict when I see one. The shaking, the sweats. He’s going into withdrawal. His pupils are like black holes. What’s he on?”
“Painkillers,” Jess whispers. “Oxycodone.”
“He’s no good for you, Jess.”
“And you are?” she snaps back.
Nav recoils. She knows she’s upset him again. “Yes,” he replies. “Yes, I am.”
He turns and walks quickly up the stairs. There’s a flash of light as he pushes the door open at the top, then darkness as it shuts behind him.
Jess wants to cry. She doesn’t deserve someone as good as Nav. She never has. It’s better this way.
She closes the door behind her and goes over to Griffin.
“How much does it hurt?” she asks, and he turns quickly, glaring at her. “Take something.”
“I am,” he says, holding up the mug and downing another large shot of vodka.
“I mean something that will actually help.”
Jess picks up his bag, digging in the pocket, holding the box out to Griffin. He looks at her, then takes it, pulling the blister pack out and showing it to her.
“Four left, that’s it,” he says.
“So get some more.”
“I can’t. My doctor wants me to go to some sort of fucking chronic pain team. To give me something else instead. I don’t have time for that shit.”
Griffin takes one capsule out, swallows it, then carefully lowers himself onto the bed.
