Gun Shy(77)

She looks like she might murder me, or fall on the floor in a pile of tears. Murder would be easier for me.

“The fence is a quick fix,” I say. “Half an hour, tops. Why don’t I just meet you there? They always make you wait for hours, anyway.”

She weighs her options silently as I watch her face. “C’mon,” I say to her. “You were right. You don’t want the induction unless it’s the absolute last resort.” I rub her back. “I promise I’ll be there before they get all up in your business.”

She chews on her lip. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. But you’ll meet me there, won’t you?”

“I promise,” I say, kissing her again.

She drives off in the new pickup she bought with her mom’s insurance money, a cruel twist of fate that something I did paid for that car. It makes my skin crawl every time I think about it, so I try not to think about it. Cassie says she forgives me. I’m not so sure I forgive myself.

But I have to keep my shit together, and keep sober, and work my ass off because I’m going to be a father in the next week, Cassie’s induction date looming on the calendar like Christmas.

I’m just about to call Pike and ask where the fuck he is when there’s a knock at the door. I open it, expecting Pike, but there’s a very somber looking Chris McCallister standing on the porch instead, looking all official-like in his tan-colored police uniform.

“Chris,” I say, opening the door wider. “Come in, man. How are you?”

“Thanks,” he says, taking off his hat and side-stepping past me. We end up in the kitchen.

“You want coffee?” I ask. “Pot’s still hot.”

He declines, hovering awkwardly on the other side of the counter. I pour one for myself and wonder where Pike is. “Everything okay?” I ask.

Chris puts his hat down on the counter and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolding it. The air between us develops a heaviness.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my tone sharp this time.

Chris pushes the piece of paper over to me. “Your last drug test was positive,” he says, unable to meet my gaze. “I haven’t told Sheriff Anderson yet.”

Sheriff Anderson was brought in to replace Damon after he high-tailed it out of town with his fishing rods, a backpack of clothes, and a harried phone call citing extreme stress as the reason for his sudden departure. Sheriff Anderson is exactly the kind of guy you’d expect to be installed in a town like ours — ruddy-faced from drinking, generally useless, and counting down the days until his retirement.

I grab the paper, scanning the words. A lot of it is police speak and codes that I don’t understand, but the words POSITIVE FOR OPIATES stand out against everything.

“This is a mistake,” I say, rage creeping up my chest. “I haven’t taken anything. I don’t even take fucking aspirin!”

I slam my coffee cup down on the counter, and coffee splashes over the sheet of paper. A weird desperation bubbles underneath my skin, like acid eating it away, layer by layer.

“I caught it before it was sent off,” Chris says. “I know Cassie’s about to pop any day now. It must be stressful. Anyone would understand if you felt like you needed something to take the edge off.”

I stare at Chris like he’s fucking stupid. “I. Didn’t. Take. Anything.”

Chris clears his throat. “Well, I’m here to tell you to definitely not take anything in the next week. Like I said, I caught this early. We’ll retest in a week.”

I nod.

“I’ll lose my job if anyone finds out about this,” Chris adds. “I only did this because Cassie’s been through enough shit. She doesn’t need you back in prison while she’s about to give birth.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate that.” I’m trying to be grateful, but I’m fucking raging. I definitely didn’t take anything. I don’t need to take anything, ironically, for the first time in years. I have Cassie.

“I’m telling you, man, it’s a false positive,” I insist. “Tell me again all the shit that can cause opiates to show up on a test.”

Chris shrugs. “I mean, there are all sorts of things that can give a false positive. Cold and flu tablets. Does Cassie use poppy seeds when she bakes? They show up as opiates if you eat enough of ‘em.”

“Like I said, I don’t take anything. Poppy seeds? Maybe. Shit. I’ll ask her when she gets home.”

Chris looks unconvinced. “You’d have to eat bags of poppy seeds to get a result that high.”

I can see it in his face; he doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’ve sunk back to the lows of my family. And nothing I say is going to change his mind.

“If you really didn’t take anything, you might want to check who you’ve been hanging out with. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen someone slip their friend something in a beer. Your brother?”

“I don’t drink beer!” I exclaim. “I don’t drink anything! I’m a boring fucking mechanic who’s about to be a father. And my brother would never do that, not in a million fucking years. The test is wrong.”

Chris takes the piece of paper back, folds it and slides it into his pocket. He pinches his hat between his fingers and sticks it back on his head, a silent gesture that says, ‘We’re done here.’ “Next week,” he says. “I won’t be able to hide that one if it’s positive. And if you tell anyone I hid this for you, I’ll fuck you up, Bentley.”