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Garrison ended the call and sat at the patio table. He hadn't been offered a solution, hadn't been given any guarantees, but the guy he'd spoken to, Reed, understood what Aiden was facing. He'd walked the path before and knew the steps Garrison needed to take.
He felt a little guilty for his first reaction when Sam had told him she'd done research for him—that flash of irritation he'd had to hide because he hated it when people thought he needed help, that he couldn't manage all by himself. But could he, really? He never would have found Reed's number. He'd still be surfing the internet aimlessly.
The guy had given him answers, a lifesaver in the middle of a stormy sea. The waves were still roiling, the thunder still booming, but now he had something to hang onto.
Sam knocked twice on the door. He motioned for her to join him on the patio, and she pushed the door open and sat beside him at the table.
"I saw you were off the phone."
He took her hand and squeezed. "Thank you. You have no idea what a relief it is to talk to someone who can tell me what to do."
"So that guy—?"
"He was addicted to painkillers, like Aiden. But much worse. Like twenty or more pills a day for years. And then he got arrested, lost his family, lost everything. Totally hit bottom. And you know what he said about hitting bottom? He said, 'It's good to hit bottom. That's where the solid ground is.' Can you imagine?"
She nodded. The blue skies and bright trees reflected in her eyes. "That's a great way to look at it."
"He told me about a few rehab centers in New England. We talked about where Aiden would do better, near here or closer to home, and he agrees that Aiden might be better off farther from home. That knowing there's no way a friend is going to come pick him up can help him mentally be where he is and do what he needs to do."
"That makes sense. It looks like he gave you some hope."
Garrison started to agree, then tempered his words. "He also told me the relapse rate is really high. When I asked for a percentage, he wouldn't give me one. Said it would only depress me. I did enough research..." He paused and thought about whether he should just say it. Then he sighed and continued. "When I was hoping to get his mother help, I learned enough. I know most relapse eventually."
"Your son isn't a statistic, he's a person, and if he wants to be sober, if he does what he's supposed to do, then he'll be sober, and the numbers won't matter at all."
Garrison stared out at the lake, which was buzzing with activity. Happy families. Or maybe they just looked that way from afar. Maybe they all had their problems, too, and they'd put them away for one day to enjoy each other.
Sam was right. Aiden wasn't a statistic. If he got clean, it would be his choice. Garrison could force him into rehab now, but he'd be eighteen in January. Then he'd be able to make his own decisions. He could choose to clean up, to finish school and go to college, or he could choose to be an addict.
The thought of it made Garrison sick to his stomach. His son, his only child, lost to drugs. Maybe lost forever.
Not if he could help it.
"So did he have some recommendations for you?"
Garrison dragged his gaze away from the water. After a moment, her question registered. "He gave me the names of ten places he thought I should research."
"It's good to have a starting point. Maybe I can help."
He was about to refuse, but he remembered her ability to find stuff online. She'd found him, hadn't she, despite his unlisted number? And thank God she had. He'd helped Marisa and Nate search for her missing daughter. Not that he was taking credit for finding her—they'd done that all their own. But if Sam hadn't found his number, he'd never have met her. "If you have nothing better to do. Maybe if we find a few places today, Aiden and I can go see one tomorrow..."
The back door opened, and Aiden stepped out. He and Sam shared a look he couldn't read. Something between the two of them. Interesting.
Aiden turned his attention to his father. "Um, can I talk to you?"
"Have a seat."
Sam stood. "I should probably..."
"You don't have to leave," Aiden said.
Garrison turned to his son, shocked the words had come from him.
"I mean, I don't care if you stay. I'm just gonna talk to Dad for a minute, and then I'm going back to bed. I feel like sh...uh, crap."
"I'll just wait inside, then."
"It's okay. Really."
She sat back down, though Garrison could tell she wanted to go in. Well, he didn't blame her. Who would choose to get involved in this mess?
Aiden looked at her again, then back at Garrison. There was definitely something going on there. So, had Aiden asked her to stay because he thought she'd be an ally, or had he hoped to ingratiate himself with his father? And no, Garrison didn't believe for a second Aiden had done it out of the goodness of his heart.
Reed's words from the conversation just moments before came back to him. Addicts are all liars and manipulators. He's gotten away with this so far because he's good at it. If you love him, if you want the best for him, you won't trust anything he tells you.
Garrison hated the suspicion, but he'd need to hang onto it if he was going to help his son. And that meant not taking anything at face value.
"Go ahead, son."
"So... I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I like...I get how hard it must have been for you when you got the phone call on Friday. That I'd been taken to the hospital and... I get that it scared you. And it's probably, like, even more embarrassing for you than for somebody else, 'cause you're like an FBI agent, so you fight crime, and now your son's a total loser."
Garrison grasped Aiden's arm. "You are not a loser. Don't talk about my son that way."
Aiden's eyes filled with tears. So maybe he was sincere, at least a little. Still... Aiden must want something.
"And you are not an embarrassment to me," Garrison continued. "You're my son, and I love you, and I'm proud of you. A few bad choices do not a life make."
Aiden swallowed, sniffed, and nodded. "Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I get it, and I'm sorry. And like... I love you."
Garrison wrapped Aiden in a hug. Maybe the kid hadn't started sincere, but those words sure sounded like he meant them.
He took his seat again. Aiden remained standing.
Sam wiped her eyes.
The suspicion seeped back in. Why had Aiden asked her to stay? Not that he was complaining—he wanted her there, too. But why did Aiden?
"I feel like I'm gonna be sick," Aiden said. "I'm going back to bed."
He turned, nodded to Sam, and went inside.
When the door closed, Garrison looked at Sam and lifted his eyebrows.
"I might have suggested he apologize to you."
"You two talked?"
"He helped me with the groceries." She blinked twice, looked beyond him, and went very still. "Then I bumped into him in the hall."
He considered what he'd just seen. There were downsides to being a trained interrogator. He thought about some of his techniques. He could get her talking about something else, see if the nonverbals went back to normal, and then return to the subject of Aiden and see if those clues returned. He could keep questioning her, wear her down. She wouldn't last three minutes in a real interrogation. Too honest. That was her problem. She had no experience with withholding the truth.
Of course, even if she'd been a trained liar, he'd have picked up on it.
Not that he had with his son. Apparently Garrison had a blind spot there.
"Here's the problem," he said. "Something about what you just told me wasn't the truth."
Her shoulders slumped. "I didn't lie. I just didn't tell you everything."
"Why?"
"I don't want to. So I'd prefer you didn't ask."
He opened his mouth, closed it again.
"Look, ask him, okay?" she said. "I'm happy to be here, but I'm not getting between you two."
He made eye contact, held her gaze. She didn't flinch.
He blew out a breath. "Should I be worried?"
"If I told you not to, would it help?"
"Good point."
He didn't like it, but he wouldn't push it.
"So," she said, "shall we get our laptops and start researching?"
He wiped the back of his hand across his sweating forehead. "Inside."
"Agreed."
They sat at the kitchen table and each took half the list of rehab centers. They read, talked, and compared until Garrison's stomach growled a couple hours later.
"Did you say you went to the grocery store?" he asked.
She shrugged. "I picked up a couple of things. Thought you wouldn't want to go out today."
He stood, kissed the top of her head, and walked to the fridge.
He was halfway there before he realized what he'd done. He'd kissed her for the first time. Okay, not on the lips, though he was thinking about it now.
He wouldn't turn to see her reaction. Nope, he'd act like it was the most natural thing in the world that he'd just kissed her.
He looked in the fridge, saw steak and ground beef. His mouth watered. "Remember that list of hot chicks in New Hampshire?"
"I remember I was on top."
"You've just blown the list away." He turned, smiled. "Really, I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. How much do I owe you?"
She waved him off. "Don't worry about it."
"You need to let me pay for the groceries." And the house, but he wouldn't bring that up again just yet.
"Fine." She pulled a receipt out of her pocket and slapped it on the table.
"You're mad?"
"I like doing things for people," she said. "I don't like it when people don't let me."
"Like you haven't done enough already."
She nodded to the fridge, which was still standing open. "It's a little early for dinner."
He grabbed a hunk of cheddar and a knife, snatched the crackers, and returned to the table. "This'll hold me over."
She chuckled. "Men. Bottomless pits."
"And proud of it." He sliced a hunk of cheese and offered it to her. After she rejected it, he popped it in his mouth. Good stuff. "I like this place I've been looking at. It's in Vermont, though. Kind of far. How about you?"
"This one looks good, too. It's the place my friends sent their son, the place I told you about earlier. It's not far from here, maybe forty-five minutes." She told him what she'd learned, and he agreed—it did sound good.
"We can check it out tomorrow," Garrison said.
"Good idea. You should call, tell them you're coming."
His knife paused mid-slice. He met her eyes. It's not like he needed her, but having her around seemed to help him stay sane, stay focused. She was good at asking the right questions. And she'd been with him to this point. So no, he didn't need her help, but he'd sure like to have it. "I'd love it if you'd come with us."
The question had seemed so innocent. So why did the color drain from her face? At least he wasn't surprised by her response. "I'm sorry. I can't."