Chapter 22
RAJAN AWAKENS TO his head pounding.
For a second, he doesn’t know where he is. The leather couch is unfamiliar. As is the crystal table in front of him, the fireplace, and the floor-to-ceiling window allowing sunlight to assault his eyes—
Shit.
Memories of last night flood back. The cops. Sukha. His father. Nick and Zohra. And...his eyes fall on the table. The remnants of what he’s done, still there.
Unexpected disappointment crushes him. He drops his head back to the cushion. Why? Why couldn’t he just hold on? He got so far, and now it’s for nothing.
But god help him...it felt good. And if that isn’t the part that makes him feel the shittiest—how, in the moment, it was a relief to relapse.
Like finally coming home after months. As if no time had passed; as if all the cravings he fought, and the drug rehab he went through, didn’t matter.
As if it never will. Because whether he’s one week, one year, or one lifetime away from his last cocaine binge, it will only ever really be one bad day away.
Nick chooses that moment to walk into the room. “Oh, you’re alive?” He plops onto the opposite couch, voice gratingly loud. “In case you were wondering, Simran got home safe. Don’t worry. I doubt she’ll report you.”
Rajan glares. He did not need the reminder that Simran saw him like that, too. “I get it, okay? I fucked up.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” Nick tosses a bunch of books on the table between them.
Rajan struggles to his elbows to squint at them. Patterned hardcover notebooks, the nice-stationery types. “What—”
“Have you already forgotten you were begging to help find a bookkeeper?” Nick taps one of the notebooks. “Here’s the accounts. I’ve been researching these people. If you were serious about wanting to help, this is your chance.”
Slowly, Rajan takes one. It takes his sluggish brain several seconds to make sense of what he’s seeing. Pages and pages of names, each corresponding to a different code. Four-digit codes...just like those used in the ledgers. This is the key to it all.
Simran would probably drool over this information. Rajan, however, just rubs his eyes. “It’s six in the fucking morning. Can’t we do this later?”
“No.” Nick picks up a ledger, too. “These records don’t leave this house.”
Sighing, Rajan sits upright. Instant vertigo forces his eyes closed. He kind of, sort of, very much wishes he could do a line right now to wake himself up. He already broke his sobriety streak. What’s the point of trying again?
“I know that look on your face,” Nick says. Rajan opens his eyes to find him staring. “And the answer is no. You’re brainless when you’re using.”
Rajan scowls and returns to reading. Potential candidates have already been highlighted, with notes stuck in the pages.
Nick’s clearly been doing some light stalking on clients.
There’s an economics professor. An accountant.
A financial consultant...Rajan lowers the book.
“Couldn’t you pay off any of these people? ”
“I’m looking for something specific.”
“Which is?”
“Vulnerability,” Nick says simply. “For example, take Brenckmann’s file over there. Highly regarded accountant. And careful. His assistant picks up product for him. The guy practically never leaves his office. No one has anything on him. Therefore, he’s not a good mark.”
Rajan, undeterred, flips to Brenckmann and opens his envelope.
Lots of info on Brenckmann, but Rajan focuses on the assistant.
She’s an international student, runs all his errands, prepares his presentations.
Probably wipes his ass, too. Rajan studies the blurry photo.
It’s a candid of a woman with a black ponytail and work uniform crossing a street.
A gas station sign looms overhead, one he recognizes from downtown.
“You’ve gotta really trust your assistant if they’re picking up your drugs,” Rajan murmurs. “But she’s got a second job, too.”
“So?”
“So the first doesn’t pay enough. Your accountant’s stingy with his employees. He may not be vulnerable, but she is.”
Nick leans over and snatches the book from his hands for another look.
Rajan picks up another in the meantime. Opening it makes him pause—it’s got Simran’s handwriting in it.
She must’ve been using it last night. Her calculations cascade down the page, much harder to follow after the fact.
If he was there, she would’ve explained as she was doing them.
But he wasn’t there. So instead all he can do is stare at her writing and add it to the list of things he’s missed out on because he was getting high.
As if on cue, his phone chimes—a reminder for Hillway this afternoon. Fantastic. He has no desire to face Simran today. That’s the worst part of a comedown—the consequences. Of course, if he keeps using, he won’t have to face any...
Cut it out, he tells himself firmly. Out loud, he says, “So what do you think?”
“Not viable.” Nick throws down the book. “She may be desperate for money, but she’s not gonna sell out her boss. He’s her best source of income. You need an angle to make people want to cooperate.”
Rajan takes another book from the pile. They read in silence until the sounds of voices from downstairs float through the vent. Nick looks out the window. “You should go.”
It’s not even eight. “But—”
“If I were you,” Nick interrupts, “I’d leave before people start waking up. You don’t have many fans around here.”
It’s a little too similar to what Zohra said yesterday. “So? That’s never been a problem before.”
Nick shrugs. “Stay, then.” He props his feet on the table. “I like you being here anyway. It’s like old times.”
That gets Rajan to his feet. “That’s not what this was.” He throws the ledger at Nick’s chest.
Nick catches it, looking amused. He doesn’t argue. He just taps the tattoo on his neck, and Rajan can almost feel his burn in response. “Sure it wasn’t.”
By the time Rajan sulks home, it’s midmorning and everyone’s gone.
Good. He doesn’t want to face his family.
It’s obvious what he did all night, proof his dad was right.
And the idea that Sukha might follow in his footsteps with this, too, makes him want to get fucked up again.
Which he knows doesn’t make much sense, but in his brain it does.
He compromises by crashing until it’s time for Hillway. Today’s volunteering session is at the public library, and when he arrives, most of the other volunteers are already dispersed. Simran’s the only mentor still standing at the door with—Neetu, he recognizes. Her friend.
Simran spots him first. God, kill him now. But when he reaches them, she smiles.
“Neetu’s a librarian here,” she tells him. “She’s managing the group today.”
There’s a fakeness to that smile. They’re putting on a performance, then. He turns to Neetu, and Neetu explains their task for the day. They’re cleaning up after a Nerf war organized by the teen book club yesterday; many rubber Nerf darts are still missing after the initial collection.
“This feels like a made-up job,” Rajan comments once she’s handed them a basket.
Neetu laughs. “It’s not. Last time we had a Nerf war, I was finding darts in bookshelves for months. I’d rather not have to keep buying more. Do you know how much those things cost?”
And with that, she directs them upstairs to begin their search.
But even when they’re left alone on the top floor, Simran still says nothing to him. Minutes pass. Eventually, Rajan can’t take it anymore. “Should we talk about yesterday?”
Simran’s scouring the place with her eyes. “We should look for darts.”
So that’s how she’s gonna play it. She’ll ignore his vices if he ignores hers.
But he can’t ignore hers. He grits his teeth, knowing he’s about to open himself up to this. “You have to keep boundaries around this bookkeeping thing. If they think you’re open to getting called whenever...”
“I know. I just needed to take my mind off things.” Her fingers twitch. “My mom had surgery yesterday.”
Oh. He watches her carefully. “And?”
“It went fine.” She strides off in the direction of the computers. After a moment, he follows. She can’t possibly think he bought that.
He backs off, though, and they comb through the top floor in silence—first around the computers, then between rows of books. It’s easy. All he has to do is picture a shootout, where the last stand might’ve taken place, and the bullets are right where he imagines.
“You’re good at this,” Simran comments after they’ve filled half their basket.
He bends to pluck a dart from where it’s suctioned to the bottom of a bookshelf. “Yeah, I’m your guy if you want to strategize a gunfight or finesse all the coke off its paper. Not much else.”
“That’s not true.”
He drops the dart into the basket. “You saw me last night. You know it is.” He can’t help how bitter he sounds.
“What I saw last night was my friend making a mistake. Like we all do. It doesn’t mean he can’t come back from it.”
He pauses to peek at her. She sounded so angry last night, yet now her expression is soft. Damn it. Why can’t she just be disgusted like everyone else? Then he could lean into his little relapse knowing he’d already disappointed her, and there was nothing to lose.
After a moment, he heads into the next aisle. “Your friend sounds like a fucking loser. Who is this dude?”
He hears her amused little huff and grins to himself, feeling lighter.
They search several more aisles without luck. At some point, Simran stops searching to pull a book off the shelf. Rajan throws a dart at her back. “Focus on the task, Simran Auntie.”
She brushes the dart off. “I’m not the one doing mandatory community service hours.”
“Smartass,” he says, delighted she’s joking with him again. “Can’t believe you’re abandoning me for some book about”—he ducks to read the cover, but she returns it to the shelf—“nerdy shit.”
She picks up another. “Maybe reading some ‘nerdy shit’ now and then would do you some good.”