Page 96 of Things We Hide from the Light

Lina had the dog. I might not have wanted the damn dog, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to let Lina keep her.

“She’s with a neighbor,” I said.

Officer Will Bertle stopped me just shy of my door. He was the first Black officer I’d hired as chief. Soft-spoken and unflappable, he was well-liked in the community and respected in the department. “You’ve got a visitor, Chief. He’s waiting for you in your office,” he said.

“Thanks, Will,” I said, trying to tamp down my exasperation. The world did not seem inclined to leave me the hell alone today.

I headed into my office and stopped short when I spotted my visitor.

“Dad?”

“Nash. It’s good to see you.”

Duke Morgan had once been the strongest, funniest man I’d known. But the years had all but erased that man.

You didn’t have to look far past the clean, baggy clothes, the neatly trimmed hair and beard, before seeing the truth of the man in my visitors chair.

He looked older than his sixty-five years. His skin was weathered and lined from years of neglect and exposure to the elements. He was too thin, a shadow of the man who had once carried me on his shoulders and tossed me effortlessly into the creek. His blue eyes, the same shade as mine, had bags under them, slashes of purple so dark they almost looked like bruises.

His fingers nervously traced the stitching on his pants over and over again. It was a tell I’d learned to recognize as a kid.

Despite my best efforts to save him, my father was a homeless addict. That failure never got easier for me to stomach.

I was tempted to turn around and walk out the door. But just as I recognized the tell, I also recognized the need to confront the bad. It was part of my job, part of who I was.

I unhooked my belt and hung it and my jacket on the coatrack behind my desk before sitting. We Morgans weren’t huggers and for good reason. Years of disappointments and trauma had made physical affection between us a foreign language. I’d always promised myself that when I had my own family, it would be different.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

Duke rubbed absentmindedly at the spot between his eyebrows. “Good. That’s kind of why I’m here.”

I braced for the ask. For the no I’d have to deliver. I’d stopped giving him money a long time ago. Clean clothes, food, hotel rooms, treatment, yes. But I’d learned early on exactly where cash went as soon as he got his hands on it.

It didn’t make me angry anymore. Hadn’t in a long time. My dad was who he was. There was nothing I could do to changethat. Not getting better grades. Not performing on the football field. Not graduating with honors. And definitely not handing him money.

“I’m going away for a little while,” he said finally, stroking a hand over his beard.

I frowned. “You in trouble?” I asked, already jiggling my computer mouse. I had an alert set for if and when his name popped up in the system.

He shook his head. “No. Nothin’ like that, son. I’m, uh, starting a rehab program down south.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He ran his palms over his knees and back up his thighs. “Been thinkin’ about it for a while. Haven’t used in a bit and I’m feelin’ pretty good.”

“How long is a bit?” I asked.

“Three weeks, five days, and nine hours.”

I blinked. “On your own?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Felt like time for a change.”

“Good for you.” I knew better than to be hopeful. But I also knew what effort it took for an addict to get to this mental space.

“Thanks. Anyway, it’s a different kind of place than the ones I did before. Comes with some counseling, medical treatment plans. Even get a social worker to help with after. They’ve got outpatient support programs, job placement.”

“That sounds like it’s got potential,” I said.