Page 62 of I’ll Be Watching You

“Certainly.” Grace led me down a short hall to her office, a small but immaculate room with a desk, two chairs, and one wall of photos.

Grace was in her late forties, her light red hair cut into a sleek bob, pale blue eyes sharp but kind. A small gold crucifix and a U.S. Navy pendant hung around her neck, one resting over the other like competing talismans. Her walls were crowded with photographs—Grace handing water to the homeless in the heat of the summer, leading group therapy circles, smiling next to men with prosthetic limbs. Interspersed were pictures of her family: a military husband, two daughters, four sons—two of her boys were sailors.

“I’m looking for a veteran who may have come through here a few years ago,” I said. “My mom thought you might be able to help. He was a patient of my father’s.”

I wasn’t entirely sure Novak had ever been a patient of my dad, but until I knew how Grace felt about my father’s incarceration, I wasn’t going to bring up Dr. Klein’s name.

“Who are you looking for?”

“Jim Novak.”

She touched her crucifix. “Jim,” she said softly with a small shake of her head. “A lost soul.”

“I couldn’t find a death record,” I offered.

“He’s not dead, as far as I know. But for years he’s resisted help. He’s homeless now. I used to see him often—he had a small apartment, a job, came here for group therapy. He was making progress.”

The word progress rang like a bell inside me. Progress meant there had been a plan. And plans meant records.

“How long ago?”

“Well, I’ve seen him a few times over the last couple of years, but he stopped coming to group therapy and lost his apartment and job about three years ago.”

That bell went off in my head again. Three years would be shortly after the end of the drug trial.

“What was his problem?” I asked carefully. “Drugs?”

Grace hesitated. “I don’t feel comfortable sharing anything too personal. As you know, Honor House works primarily with veterans transitioning from service to civilian life—mental health counseling, addiction, homelessness, PTSD, physical disabilities, alcohol abuse. We’re also a meeting center, a place where vets can talk to each other, play games, relax in a safe and welcoming environment. We have job postings, training, help with using the GI bill for college, general support services. We also serve wounded warriors who fall through VA cracks. But our primary mission is servicing homeless vets through rehab, shelter, and job retraining, whatever it is they need. Traditional services don’t always work for them.”

“My dad was a big supporter,” I said.

“One of our biggest,” she agreed. “Your mother’s continued his legacy. Why are you looking for Jim?”

I couldn’t tell her the entire truth, but the lie I’d come up with was believable.

“My dad asked me to check in on some of his patients he’s been worried about. Jim is on that list.”

Grace’s eyes softened. “He comes in sometimes, usually during monsoons. The storms set him off, he panics, sometimes reacts violently. He was diagnosed with PTSD, but as far as I know, he didn’t stick with therapy. He could be self-medicating—many of those who suffer from PTSD fall down that dangerous path. We’re not equipped here for violent clients. I’ve tried to get him to self-commit—our sister program is Honor House Cave Creek, which is a secure drug rehab facility. Unfortunately, he hasn’t agreed. I hold out hope that someday he will.”

“Do you know where he stays?” There were several large homeless encampments on the outskirts of downtown and a few clusters of small groups in the area.

“He walks a lot, avoids people. He prefers solitude. Police have picked him up along the wash in Glendale a few times, the section just south of the 101. They bring him here, he stays for a day or two, leaves. Seems to drift back there.”

“That helps. Do you have a recent photo?”

Grace typed on her computer, and the printer clicked to life. She handed me a sheet of paper.

Two pictures. The first was Jim’s military photo: close-cropped sandy hair, brown eyes, smile firm and confident. The second was a man I barely recognized from the first image. Full beard, hair long and stringy, eyes hollow and wary. His stats were listed below the photos: white, blond, brown, six foot one, 170 pounds. He was forty-one. Only next of kin was a daughter, Kristen Novak.

Grace muttered sadly. “Five years.”

“What?” I asked.

“Those pictures were taken five years apart. Jim served thirteen years in the Army before shrapnel forced him out of service. Multiple surgeries and he still has a limp. We helped him find housing. He didn’t have much of a homelife to return to, but he was trying, had a part-time job, was making progress. Then about a year later, he started acting paranoid. Agitated.”

I knew what she’d say before she said it.

“He was seeing a psychiatrist,” she continued. “Nothing helped. He lost his job, his apartment. He didn’t care. When he first came in, he didn’t drink or use drugs. Now, I can’t say, but I can tell you that he needs help or he’ll die.”