Page 55 of Nowhere Good

Oh.

Thank God.

“I’m sorry, I… I thought you shot up,” she said. “I was worried.”

“Almost. I wanted to,” he slurred. “All I had to do was throw that stuff out… the bag, the needle… shit, I gotta get up.”

He was practically green as she helped him onto the bed, where he quickly rolled onto his side like he’d done this before, a thousand times over. Claire moved the bin closer so if he needed it again, he wouldn’t be stuck cleaning sick off the motel carpet. It was a good thing she did, too, because he threw up again instantly.

Poor thing. She knew how painful this was, all too well.

Clementine used to take care of her when she got too drunk, during her brief party phase near the end of high school. She’d taught her a little trick, which Claire had then used to comfort Brad during his withdrawals. She went into the bathroom and searched for a washcloth. It felt too intimate to be here, next to Winslow’s toothbrush and toothpaste on the sink, his bodywash and shampoo on the edge of the bathtub. Men’s products always had stupid names like slate and stone, but they smelled nice. Masculine. Like him. She tried not to think about it as she dampened the cloth and returned to the bed, then placed it on his forehead. He relaxed at the feeling and reached up, gently touching it.

“Thank you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve got any bread or something kicking around here?” she asked. “Something to soak up the alcohol?”

Winslow shook his head. “Just gotta sleep it off. I’ll be okay. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“I don’t even know what I’m seeing.” She laughed half-heartedly. “You’re the last person I expected this from.”

His eyes remained open, staring across the room. “I just wanted to sleep.”

Something had rattled him, no doubt. He barely seemed shaken when they found Kelsey’s body. Then again, Claire knew nothing about this man, about how he coped. But he’d never seemed like a booze hound, at least not one she’d ever served.

Eventually, he sat upright and left the washcloth on the nightstand. He peeled off his shirt, too sweaty to keep on, and tossed it on the bed behind him. He leaned forward on his elbows and pinched the bridge of his nose. There was a reusable water bottle on the table across the room next to some folders—case files, probably—so she handed it to him. He accepted it, though he was still green.

“You’re so nice,” he murmured. “Thanks…”

Claire’s cheeks warmed as she sat on the bed beside him and fidgeted with her rope bracelets, trying not to stare at his arms or the exposed muscles of his abdomen. “When was the last time you used? I see those track marks. I know you’ve got a history.”

“Few years ago. I was working undercover in narcotics, got hooked again. Then got clean again.”

She chewed on her lip. The image she’d built of this man, so put together from the day he was born, crumbled before her. “Again?”

“Yeah. High school, I was a different person, but I got clean before I became a cop.” His brows pinched in pain. “It’s all bullshit. I still kept a needle on me after the narcotics job. I wanted to.”

Claire tried to think of something to say, but another wave of nausea turned him green again. He keeled over and threw up into the trash bin—so much for the water. After he was done, he lay back in the bed, taking the washcloth with him and placing it on his chest, above his heart.

Part of her figured she should keep her trap shut, but she found herself wanting to understand this side of him. “What made you stop? You have everything you need, but you got drunk instead. Why?”

Winslow’s gaze was haunted. “I’ve never been a big drinker. I was tempted, very tempted, to get high. I went out to clear my head, but the feeling wouldn’t leave, so I grabbed a bottle of vodka. Figured if I chugged it, I’d get sick, and I wouldn’t be able to shoot up. I had to do something. ’Cause I wasn’t gonna make it through the night. And I couldn’t do that. To them, I mean. They deserve better.”

“Eliza and Kelsey,” Claire said, and Winslow nodded. “But I read someone was arrested. Norm Stanfield, the Mr. Giggles guy.”

The mere mention of Norm’s name made Winslow’s face contort. He clamped his eyes shut. “Jus’, tell me something—tell me you never interacted with that guy.”

“Not really, no. Maybe when I was a kid. He’s always been a bit off.”

He relaxed. “Good. I’m glad.”

“Why? Is it him?”

“No, I don’t think so. But he’s… something else.”

“I don’t understand. What’d he do? I remember the moms used to think he was creepy.”

Winslow shook his head. He almost smiled as he sank into the pillow. “Don’t worry about it. We got him.”