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CHAPTER TWENTY

It had been a long time since Patterson had driven the road she was on.

Thinking back, she locked in the timeframe at about a month after Yates had been released from the hospital. She and Scott had come over for a triple-date dinner with Gemma, Yates, Rachette, and Charlotte. They had been a six-wheeled vehicle running on all cylinders that night, the quirky billionaire’s daughter laughing hysterically at anything Yates said, Rachette keeping his Rachette-isms to a minimum.

How things had changed for the worse in the few short months since that winter evening. Gemma had moved in with Yates, probably too quickly, but not as fast as she had moved back out. And now Yates was…he was what? Beating himself up about it?

Patterson rubbed a crick in her neck from a bad night’s rest. Swirling thoughts had kept her on the edge of sleep all night, not letting her cross into slumber. Ever since Waze had mentioned he was going to be looking for a new detective, she had been thinking about how she had abandoned Yates in his time of need.

Digging for excuses, she could only come up with one: that she had been preoccupied with her transition out of sheriff and into the detective role again. She’d been obsessed with making sure Waze was set up correctly and not dropping balls that needed to be kept in the air. People’s livelihoods were at stake, and this drunk newcomer came in, giving her little confidence in his ability to catch anything more than a cold.

So, here she was on the northwest outskirts of town, driving through clusters of houses in the trees on her way to visit Yates, attempting to make good on the one livelihood she had dropped the ball on.

Rachette had probably kicked the door down, as was his way. She needed to come in with her own brand of love to offer and let the man know everyone wanted him to get better. She felt better already for finally doing something. Even if it was a hug and a pat on the back, it would help.

She slowed at her destination, taking in the place.

“Shit,” she said under her breath, shifting into park.

It looked so different she had to recheck the address beside the door. She was in the right place. But it looked like the house itself had been on a bender the night prior.

The morning sun lit the lawn, and through the overgrown grass, points of light reflected off beer cans. Paper trash and cardboard chunks of pizza boxes were strewn about. A crushed Coors Light can teetered in the wind on the porch wall. It looked like a house on The Hill in Boulder after a Friday night rager .

She shut the engine off and got out.

Yates’s car was parked at an aggressive angle on the driveway, the back right tire rolled up onto the lawn, and the bumper close to the garage door.

She walked up the steps, kicking aside a cigarette butt, wondering whose it could possibly be. Yates had always bad-mouthed the habit.

The other side of the porch wall hid much more paraphernalia of a life gone to the dark side: a dozen beer cans, cigarette butts, and cans of Copenhagen snuff flung to the ground.

She rang the doorbell, hearing the chime echo inside.

Her watch read 7:27 a.m.

No movement from inside, and nobody answered. She pressed her face to the window next to the door and scanned the interior with a squinted gaze.

More beer cans. Pizza boxes. Chinese food. Her eyes landed on a plastic bag of pills next to the Barcalounger. She spotted another on the coffee table and one on the end table.

She reached over and knocked, keeping her position to watch the inside. When nobody answered the second time, she twisted the knob and started when the door popped open inwardly. He was completely checked out if his door was unlocked. The man used to access the candy drawer to his desk with a key to keep Rachette out.

She walked inside, her nose turning up at the beer and BO scent emanating from the family room. The television was still on; a European golf tournament flickered on the screen, the announcers murmuring quietly.

With more than a little trepidation at the state she would find him in, she walked through the kitchen, down the hallway, and to his ajar bedroom door.

Light blazed inside the open shades of his room, illuminating his motionless form lying on the bed, sprawled face-first in a mess of sheets, clothed in sweatpants and a black T-shirt.

For a shocking moment, she wondered if he might be dead, but then his back moved with a slow breath.

“Hey,” she said.

Nothing. Not even the slightest of reactions.

“Hey!” This time, she yelled the word.

He jumped, turning with a half-howling noise.

“Get up!”

His eyes narrowed to slits, and his forehead cracked into a thousand folds as he put up a hand to block the light. “What the hell?”

“Yeah. Exactly what I was thinking.”

She walked to the window and tugged it open. “It reeks in here. Smells like you shit yourself…last month.”

He said nothing, putting his head back down. Two seconds later he inhaled deeply, turning onto his side, sleeping soundly again as if nothing had happened.

She lifted her foot and heel-kicked the bed.

He jolted again. “Ah!”

She got up on the mattress and pushed him hard with both hands until he spilled off. He hit the carpet, knocking his head against the dresser on his way down.

“Holy shit, what is your problem?” He writhed on the floor.

“Get up. I need to talk to you.” She helped him back onto the bed. “And stay up this time. ”

She went to the kitchen and sifted through a heap of dirty dishes for a cup, filled it with water, and brought it back to him.

His eyes were still open; that was something , but he was leaning back on his pillows.

“I said up!”

He sat up.

“Here. Drink this.”

He took a sip.

“Chug it. All of it.”

“Okay, geez.”

She watched him suck the water down like he’d been walking through the desert for days. She went and refilled it again and again, watching each time as he sucked it down greedily until the fourth time when he finally settled on sipping.

“You better?”

He looked up at her with the deadest eyes she’d ever seen. “No,” he said.

“Really. What is that smell?” A stack of dirty clothes in the corner drew her attention and solved the case.

She was afraid to continue probing the specifics of the place with her eyes, so she locked into his lifeless stare again.

“Listen,” she said, “we need to talk.”

“About what?”

“About this. About your life. What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know.” He kept his eyes on hers.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around here more, Yates.”

He shrugged.

“What happened with Gemma?”

“Gemma?” He shook his head. “That was months ago. ”

“What happened with her?”

“She left.”

“Why?”

“She’s not the kind of girl to hang around losers.”

“Are you saying she just left you?”

“You calling me a loser?” He smiled, a disturbing mimic of the facial expression she had known before the gunshot.

“Seriously, Yates. Why did she suddenly move out?”

“I broke up with her.”

“What? Why?”

He rubbed his eyes. “It’s really none of your business, Patty.”

“Yes, it is. You’re obviously upset about it. That’s why you’re sitting here beating yourself up. You were getting better with her in the picture. She’s out. And now look at you.”

He shrugged. “You got me figured out. What can I say?”

She looked out the window. “What happened when Rachette came over here the other night?”

“Rachette came over?”

She looked at him. “Yeah. Two nights ago. Rachette said he came over. Did he come over or not?”

“Okay, chill. Yeah. He came over and said hi.”

“And?”

She waited for more explanation, but none came. “How many pills are you taking a day?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit. How many?”

“Twenty?”

She didn’t know what number she expected, but it hadn’t been that high.

“Maybe more,” he added .

“What kind?”

He shrugged. “Vicodin. Percocet.”

She shook her head. “You’re not dead yet, so I know you’re not taking fentanyl-laced knockoffs. How are you getting all these pills?”

He picked up his glass and sipped again.

“We need you to get better, Jeremy.”

He set the cup down, closed his eyes as he sat back, and smiled. And then his face went slack. When he opened his eyes again, they shimmered with tears.

“What do we do?” she asked, her voice low. “They have a couple of places out in eastern Colorado. In-house rehab centers. There are a few up here in the mountains, too.”

“I don’t need rehab.”

“The hell you don’t.”

Her phone rang in her pocket. She pulled it out. Waze’s name was on the screen.

With a sigh, she answered. “Patterson.”

“Hey, they found Lawrence Hunt’s vehicle.”

“Where?”

“Green River, Wyoming.”

“Okay. Did you tell Wolf?”

“Yeah. Where are you?”

“I’m on my way in.”

She hung up and pocketed the phone.

“We’ll talk about this again, okay?”

The tears were gone, and now he stared at her.

“I said we?—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

She walked to him, sat down on the bed, and wrapped him in a hug. She pulled him in tight, ignoring the slick skin, the moist shirt, the greasy hair pressing into her cheek, and the smell.

“We love you, Jeremy.”

He remained frozen and silent, arms hanging limp by his side until she let go.

“We’ll talk about this again,” she repeated. And then, fighting back tears, she left.