The guy all but rolled his mean little eyes. “Gavin Haines, asshole. Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid.”
“I didn’t. Gavin wasn’t my dealer. He hated my guts. The night he died was the only time I ever hung out with him. He gave me a free sample, because he wanted me to introduce him to some of my junkie friends. And you must know how that ended. If I’d had his stash in my car, the cops would have found it. I would have been sent down for intent to distribute.”
“He had more shit than they found,” my ugly visitor said. “Where is it?”
I gave him an exaggerated shrug. “I wouldn’t know. Why would you even ask about this three years later? If it hasn’t turned up, I don’t think it’s turning up.”
This creep lifted his ugly chin and stared at me. “Where did he hang?”
Jesus Christ. This was not a conversation I wanted to have. “I’d be the last to know. He had a place in Burlington with his frat buddies, but I never got closer than the front yard. You want me to guess? He could have had a storage unit somewhere. Or maybe he put it in a gym locker—that’s where they always look on TV.”
The asshole stared me down again, and I felt the seconds tick by. I’d done well so far at keeping my irritation to myself. But everyone had a breaking point, and I was reaching mine.
“Maybe he kept it at home.”
I laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “In the police chief’s house? No chance.”
“Maybe the chief was in on it?”
I shook my head. “You’ll never convince me of that. The man is an ass, but he’s not dirty. The stick up his butt is made of rebar.”
My interrogator raised an eyebrow. “So the son was going off in his own direction, and he knows his daddy didn’t like you, so you’re a good pick to help him.”
“You are full of theories, aren’t you? And maybe if his association with me lasted longer than two hours, you’d be onto something.” I would repeat this story until my dying day. And it was easy to do because I was telling the truth.
But if he didn’t get the fuck out of my garage soon, I didn’t know what I would do.
“Maybe the daughter knows something,” he said slowly.
My blood stopped circulating. “No chance. They weren’t close.”
“But you were.”
My heart spasmed in my chest. “Sure I was. But I lied to her all damn day back then. That’s what an addict does.”
The next fifteen seconds probably took fifteen years off my life. He watched me, his eyes burning with irritation. I measured the distance between myself and the lug wrench and waited to find out if I was going to need to lunge for it.
“You find it, you call me,” he said finally. He took a card out of his pocket and set it on Mrs. Walters’ rear tire.
My heart thumped with relief. Slowly, as if it didn’t matter to me at all, I turned back to my lug nut. “I’m not finding a thing. I don’t leave this place except to get food and go to meetings in a church basement.”
“Yeah? Don’t let me find out that ain’t true. It would be really damn easy to plant some shit in your garage, and then tell the cops where to find it. I hear they want your ass gone from this town, anyway.”
“Don’t waste your stash,” I grumbled. “I never bought from that guy. Like I said—he wanted me to introduce him to some friends, but we barely made it that far. Wish he hadn’t given me a sample. I’m never going near that shit again.”
“That’s what they all say.” He laughed.
I grasped the wrench, my grip tightening on the metal. I wanted to lash out, and the grip I had on my self-control was flimsy. Shit. If I were smart, I’d ask this asshole to come around every day to remind me why I stay sober. Bad decisions looked like this—like a dealer in your face over a stash of drugs from three years ago. I’d brought this on myself.
I dropped my eyes, praying he’d just go already. His stare burned me a few moments longer. Finally he walked out without a word.
I flicked his card in the trash and went back to work.
After I finished with Mrs. Walters’ tires, I went back to painting. But this time with gritted teeth and the first drug cravings of the day. And it was only eleven o’clock.
By the time five o’clock rolled around, I was sweaty, shaky and coated in a gritty layer of paint dust. I put my tools away, looking forward to a shower and a trip to the Shipleys’.
“Waste of time,” my father said suddenly.
I spun around, almost dropping the paint scraper I was holding. I hadn’t heard him walk in, and I was a little jumpy after my visit from the goon squad earlier in the day. Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm down. “Place needs a coat of paint.”
“Not if it’ll be knocked down.”
“What?”
My father held out a hand, offering me a piece of paper.