Page 51

CHAPTER 51

BY THE TIME Holmes got back to his apartment upstairs, he was sweaty and queasy again. It seemed to come in waves. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the drawer where he had kept his main supply of withdrawal meds. No more. The night he’d returned from Canal Street, he’d tossed out every remaining pill.

He picked up his phone and scrolled through a long list of messages from his rehab counselor—the one he was supposed to have been contacting every twenty-four hours since he left Ithaca. The phone number was right there. Maybe he should call. Check in. Find somebody to refill his prescription. No, dammit! Weakness! A step backward! He tossed his phone onto his side table.

He stood up and grabbed the back of a chair, suddenly unsteady on his feet. He crossed the room and opened the door to his closet. He knelt on the carpet and ducked his head under the row of impeccably organized shirts and suits. His fingers found the keypad of the safe embedded in his back closet wall. He pressed the code by feel and heard the whir of the small motor that released the lock. The door popped open with a satisfying click.

Holmes leaned over and peered into the tiny sanctum, the solid steel box where he had always kept his heroin stash. But of course that was gone too.

Now he reached into the safe and lifted the thin felt liner that covered the floor. Underneath was a single yellowed envelope with one edge ripped open. He pulled it out and sat back against the closet door, his heart pounding.

From the envelope, he carefully extracted a one-page letter, written in elegant script. Holmes held it up under the closet light and read it slowly, absorbing every line. The words were very familiar. He’d probably read this same letter a hundred times before. In many ways, he’d built his life around it.

It was the last thing his mother ever gave him.