Page 17 of Nowhere Good

Inside it, a ball of black tar heroin.

Shame, bitter like tonic on his tongue. He could lose his job because of this and he’d deserve it.

You’re supposed to be past this.

The inner part of his elbow—the cubital fossa, a medical examiner once told him—had a distinct pattern on it. He only wore short sleeves when he was alone, but those veins, a dusty red, thorns under his skin, brought him back to the streets of New York three years ago, still bustling long after the sun had gone down.

Seth had been working a deep undercover case back when he was a narcotics officer. He’d met Detective Collier—the man who’d scoped him for the job—at a diner on the other side of the city, far from Hell’s Kitchen, where the job was still ongoing. Collier suspected a group of younger guys could lead him to a major drug supplier and needed a man inside. Seth had been twenty-five at that time, but could pass for younger, easy. His colleagues never did stop calling him “the kid,” even when he could grow facial hair.

But this particular job had brought out personal demons for him, demons he’d tried to bury under years of police work. He hadn’t seen himself like this in years, but when he caught his reflection in the dark window beside their booth, it was like no time had passed since he’d been nineteen and an addict. His black hood was pulled over his head, his papery cheeks gaunt, deep bags under his eyes. A mirror to his past life.

Collier had sat across from him, nonchalant as ever. He had a salt and pepper mustache and wore a tacky corduroy jacket, even though it was nearly three a.m. He’d been dumping three creamers into his coffee when Seth fessed up over the sound of diner ambience.

“Sir, I have to tell you something.”

“Spit it out, kid, we don’t have all night.”

Nerves twisted his stomach. Seth was sure he’d lose his job because of what he’d done. He rolled up his sleeve and showed Collier the marks on his cubital fossa. Most of them had faded. But one was cherry red. Fresh.

“I didn’t have a choice. It was like a rite of passage. It was the only way I could gain their trust.”

Collier’s gaze flickered. “And did you gain their trust?”

Seth nodded. He’d blended right in.

Collier took a closer look at Seth’s arm, then leaned back against the shiny booth, crossing his arms. “You don’t get track marks like that from one-time use, son.”

“I know.” He hesitated. “I used when I was a teenager. I got clean after my mom died. I’d never touched it again, until this. I’m sorry, sir. I should’ve told you about my history.”

Collier went quiet for several moments, in which Seth felt a noose tighten around his neck. He swore those were the longest thirty seconds of his life.

But then Collier took a sip from his near-white coffee and said, “I already know your history, Winslow. I already know Detective Landis—may he rest in peace—worked your mother’s case, saw something in you, and encouraged your admission into the academy as long as you got your sobriety ticket first. And you managed to turn yourself into a fine cop. Not to mention the fact that NYPD was as desperate for recruits then as we are now, but hey, that’s another story. I picked you because of your history and because I was sure what Landis saw in you wasn’t a fluke.”

Shame snatched the air from Seth’s lungs. Landis had shown him everything; he’d been the exact type of man Seth hoped to become. Patient, straightforward, and never brutal. He’d be ashamed of him for breaking. This was how it would start—how Seth’s dream of making detective someday would turn into a memory, and how he’d find himself back on the streets.

“But the nature of a job like this, Winslow—things get hairy. Lines get blurred. I only gotta know one thing. Can you control yourself on it, or does your tongue get all slippery?”

“I can control myself.”

He’d always been a good high. It was when he was coming down—and couldn’t get more—that he could turn ugly.

“Good,” Collier said. “Then do what you gotta do to find the supplier. If you need rehab after, we’ll figure it out. Just always have a clean needle on you. I’ll get you a box, no questions asked.” Collier leaned in and lowered his voice, eyes intense like two granite daggers. “Winslow, if you do this for me, I promise your career is gonna skyrocket.”

The part of him who’d become a cop, committed to bettering himself and bettering New York, had been relieved he could stay on the job.

The part of him who’d been an addict before anything else had been relieved he’d been given a free pass to shoot up again, even one more time.

Seth realized later that Collier had been a bit too willing to gamble with his life. Seth would’ve been nothing more than a pawn, had he not picked up the trail of a serial killer operating in the same apartment building he’d been living undercover in, making sex workers disappear. He was able to gather evidence and bring it to Homicide. As a result, his career did skyrocket, but it wasn’t because of the narcotics bust.

And he did get clean after all that. Hadn’t touched a drug since. Almost three years.

But the job had put him back into his old habit from his teenage years of always keeping a clean needle, because the alternative was always worse.

It had been justified, then. What excuse did he have now? He wouldn’t use what was in that bag, but by taking it, he’d royally screwed up. He grabbed the bag of heroin and tossed it in the trash bin beside the dresser. Right where it belongs.

Winded, he turned to the room. The fan sputtered dusty air at him. His case files and laptop were spread over the laminate-topped table by the window. Just then, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He hurried over to it. A number was calling him from a local area code.

“This is Detective Winslow,” he said.