Page 56 of Nowhere Good

She wasn’t sure what to say. Whatever Norman had done, whatever Winslow had seen because of it, must’ve pushed him in this direction. It must’ve been bad.

“Anyway, I’m really glad you’re okay,” she said. “I should go. Sorry I broke into your motel room… you should probably talk to Gary about making it a bit more secure…” She went to stand up, but his voice stopped her.

“Hold on, don’t go. Why’d you come here? You okay?”

He stared at her with more clarity now, like the last vomit session had sobered him. Even at such a low point, he was concerned about her. A conflicting feeling wormed through her heart. It was his job to care about people, but not all cops were like that.

“I wanted to ask you something about my mom, but maybe now’s not the time.”

“Your mom, Celine Dyer. I know what happened to her. The story, anyway. You can tell me.”

Claire shrugged. “Nah. When I do tell you, I want you to be, well. You.”

Winslow nodded, drifting off—another look of pain passing over him—but it left just as fast. “My mom died too, when I was nineteen. But it wasn’t an accident. “

She turned fully toward him. She hadn’t expected that either. “How’d it happen?”

“She was murdered by a man she trusted.”

A stab straight to her heart. The pieces began to click into place.

“So that’s why you became a detective. You must’ve really loved her.”

“No, not while she was alive. We didn’t have a good relationship. The truth is, I hated her.”

Claire felt the weight in his words, but she didn’t flinch. She understood how it felt, when the one person who is supposed to protect you fails you.

“I sound like a dick, sorry,” he slurred. “Of course I loved her too. It’s complicated.”

“No, I understand. Was it ’cause of all the men she’d bring around? I remember what you told me.”

“Yeah. I mean, two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, waitress’s salary, barely covered anything. And she’d give these guys cash when I needed stuff for school. I had holes in all my sneakers.” He laughed, but it came out dry and hollow. “God, that sounds so stupid now.”

“It doesn’t.” Claire pulled toward him on instinct. She almost wanted to grab his hand, to tell him it was okay, he could trust her, but she restrained herself because they were still strangers and he was still drunk. No way would this man be spilling his guts to her otherwise. Still, she couldn’t help but lean into the chance to connect. “She was supposed to protect you.”

He rubbed at his chin, sluggish and clumsy. “Nope. She’d let her drunk-ass boyfriends kick the shit out of me. That was more her style.” A pause, then a sniff, like he was trying to pull himself together, but couldn’t. “I didn’t put up with it for that long, though. I ran off with my ex-girlfriend when I was a teenager. And,” he sang, “that’s how I got hooked on needles. Now you know.”

His self-loathing permeated the air, but Claire wished she could take that feeling from him. Because even if he wasn’t this perfect, level-headed man, he was still a good one.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” she said, voice thick. “That’s awful. You were a kid.”

“A shithead kid,” he corrected. “I’d go back to the apartment sometimes just to fight with her, make things worse, steal. Like a parasite. Till I went back one time and found her, well. Like that.”

“Wait, you were the one who…?”

“Yeah, I found her.”

Claire winced at the visceral image. She couldn’t even fathom how he survived each day with that memory. Let alone how he could turn around and look at more murder for a living.

Maybe that was the point.

She remembered what her dad said the other night.

“Men like him want somethin’ to save, like maybe if they fill their black hearts with good deeds, they’ll feel better about whatever it is they’re runnin’ from.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Claire said. “You know that, right?”

“I know. I have to live with it anyway.”