CHAPTER FORTY
4:15 p.m.
Andrew
Shattered glass sparkled in a pool of yellow beer on the tile inside the door of Nick’s apartment. “What the fuck is this mess?” Andrew barked.
“You can thank your girlfriend for that,” Nick spat, walking toward the kitchen.
Andrew sidestepped the puddle, the shards of glass and stench of stale beer kindling to his rage. His patience with everyone in his life had all but expired, and Nick’s mention of Kathryn set his anger to a boil. His quick strides closed the distance between Nick and himself. “You’re supposed to be my best friend, Nick. And you let me live a lie—you let me humiliate myself—for my entire fucking life.”
Nick’s eyes locked on Andrew’s. “It’s about time you saw what was right in front of your face.”
An image of Nick with Kathryn flashed through Andrew’s mind. “You’ve made me feel like a fuckup for all this time—”
“You were always so fucking oblivious,” Nick shot back. “I tried so hard with you, with both of you. But you know what I realized a few weeks ago? Neither of you ever gave a shit about me unless you wanted something. At least I got to fuck Kathryn. But you? You’re so self-absorbed, so wrapped up in your own bullshit—”
Andrew grabbed Nick by his shirt, pushing him back against the kitchen counter. “Did you move to Delray for her?”
“What is it to you?” Nick barked.
“What did you think was going to happen? Did you think you’d get a job here and she’d fall in love with you?”
“Fuck you, Andrew!” He saw it in Nick’s eyes, what he’d been blind to all along: his jealousy. It was all-consuming. His best friend was in love with Kathryn Moretti.
Andrew suddenly understood why Nick hated that Max looked so much like him: he was a reminder of everything Nick couldn’t have. “You didn’t learn about Max two years ago. You knew this whole time. You thought he was yours, didn’t you?”
“I knew he was your little clone the second I saw him. Then he became a drunk, acting like a weak, spoiled little shit, just like you did—” Andrew’s grip tightened, his knuckles white, but Nick didn’t stop. “You’re just a spoiled rich kid who went on a binge when your girlfriend fucked your best friend and then took off—”
Andrew shoved Nick, who stumbled back into the kitchen, knocking a cluster of empty beer bottles off the counter. Glass shattered around them. “You two fucking deserve each other,” Nick spat.
They were interrupted by Andrew’s phone. Andrew thrust his hand into his pocket, and both men looked at the screen. Kathryn. Andrew sighed and took a few steps back, leaving the argument hanging between them.
Andrew answered. “Kathryn?”
“Andrew.” Her voice was breathless. “It’s Max. Emmy called me. Something’s wrong with him. They’re at her father’s house down on the beach. I need you to go help her, see what’s going on. I drove up north, where he likes to go. I thought he might’ve gotten into an accident again. I’m turning around now, and I’ll get there as fast as I can, but I need you to go over there—228 Ocean.”
Andrew had never heard Kathryn’s voice sound this way, desperate and scared. His feet were already crunching over the broken glass. He darted out the door into the sunlight.
He didn’t see Nick behind him until Nick bellowed, “Where the fuck are you going? What’s wrong with Kat?”
Andrew yanked his car door. The engine roared to life, and he grabbed his seat belt. “It’s not Kathryn, it’s Max.”
Nick pulled the passenger door and dropped into the seat beside him. Andrew met Nick’s bloodshot eyes. There was no time to fight with Nick. Andrew slammed his door and shifted into reverse. He sped along Ocean Avenue, the tension in the car palpable as he scanned the heavy gates, searching for the address Emmy had given them. His eyes fell on the brass numbers 228 peeking between the trees, and he slammed on his brakes, then made an abrupt turn through the open gate. It was only a few miles from where he lived, maybe just short of the distance he regularly ran, but he’d never noticed it.
Andrew took in the towering three-story house. This was where Kathryn and Max had lived. All the windows were dark except for one on the second floor. Andrew opened the back door, which Emmy had left unlocked, and Nick followed him inside, into the kitchen.
“Max, Emmy?” Andrew called out. They passed into the dining room.
Emmy came down the stairwell, her face pale in the low light. “He’s upstairs. Follow me.”
At the top of the wooden staircase, a triangle of light poured into the hallway. Emmy entered the bathroom first, followed by Andrew, then Nick. Max was slumped next to the bathtub, eyes closed, his head resting on his hand on the pristine white porcelain. He was pale, sweat seeping through his shirt. Andrew’s pulse quickened, and he knelt to jerk Max’s shoulder. “Max?” Max’s limp body shook under Andrew’s hand. Andrew’s palms itched, panic spiking. He turned to Emmy. “How long has he been unconscious?”
“I don’t know. He was talking to me before, but he wasn’t himself. So I called Kathryn.” Emmy’s voice was rushed but small. “I thought he was just sleepy. Hungover, maybe. But then he came up here and threw up. And then he passed out, just before you got here, and I couldn’t wake him up ... Is he going to be okay?”
“Max?” Andrew said his name forcefully, then lifted his wrist off the cold tile and found a weak pulse. Max was breathing, Andrew noted, but his skin was cool. “What did he take?” Andrew demanded.
“Javier said Oxys, probably ... Should I—should I call someone?”
“When did he take them?” Andrew looked from Max, to Emmy, then back again.
“An hour or so ago, maybe. But he could’ve taken more when I went to get him a towel, or when I went to get his clothes from the dryer.” Her voice faded before she whispered a lost, “I don’t know.”
Andrew turned to Emmy. “Yes, go downstairs. Call 911. Make sure the front gate is open. We need help. Fast.”
Emmy froze, her eyes wide, and she turned from Andrew to Nick. Nick stared down at Max but said nothing. Max’s eyes fluttered, a quick flash of blue; then they closed again.
“Max.” Andrew shook Max harder but got no response. He turned to Emmy and cried, “Now, Emmy. Hurry.”
Emmy sprinted down the stairs, and Andrew turned back to Max, trying to lift his head. He shook Max and called his name, then turned to Nick, desperate. “Nick, I need help. What do I do?”
Nick jerked a shoulder. “There’s nothing you can do. He’s as good as dead.”
Andrew’s head snapped up. “No. He has a pulse, he’s in and out of consciousness. He’s overdosed, and he needs help quickly. Should I do CPR?”
Nick’s footsteps shuffled on the tile, unsteady. “What a surprise,” he slurred.
“Nick, please,” Andrew pleaded.
“I should’ve seen this shit coming. I guess he really is your kid, Drew.” Nick swayed. “Not like there was any question.”
A dizzying spike of panic. Nick wouldn’t be any help, as drunk as he was. “Nick, if we don’t help him, he could die. I need you to tell me what to do here.”
“You were the only one she ever wanted,” Nick muttered.
“Nick—”
“I was never anything more than a distraction.”
“This isn’t about Kathryn. Focus, I need your help!”
“That’s all she ever wanted. And you, too—you only wanted what you could take from me.” Nick swayed again, taking his hand off the doorframe.
Andrew spun back to his son. Where were the paramedics?
A laugh rose from Nick, small and hollow, and a chill ratcheted through Andrew. “Yeah, Drew, I’ll help. I’m always around to help. I’ll help put an end to all this bullshit.” Nick reached into his holster, took his firearm off his belt, and aimed directly at Andrew.
The bathroom spun, a dizzying sensation Andrew numbly recalled only from the darkest moments of a drunken haze. But this was different, raw fear. “Nick.” He spoke his best friend’s name in a whisper and met his eyes. “What are you doing?” His pulse ticked, white-hot panic rising in his limbs, and he held out his palms. “Please. Put the gun down and let’s talk about this. Max needs help.”
Nick turned the gun from Andrew, then aimed at Max, calm and with intention. The room exploded with an earsplitting noise.
A scream cut the air, and it took Andrew a moment to gather the scream had come from himself before he dropped to his knees, ears ringing. He crawled across the floor toward Max. Blood poured from the red spot that appeared on Max’s side and pooled onto the black-and-white tile floor. Andrew grasped his son and yanked him into his lap. Thoughts boomed in his mind like fireworks, millions of shards of useless information he’d once received, first aid in an emergency. It all slipped away from him, and Andrew grasped only two thoughts: press on the wound, stop the bleeding. He was helpless as he lifted Max’s shirt. A small hole just above Max’s waistband, like a tiny open mouth, spewing blood. Andrew laid his palm over it and pressed into his son’s flesh, blood oozing between his fingers.
A flash of movement caught Andrew’s attention, and he looked to Nick, who now backed up to the doorframe, his eyes round with horror.
“What the fuck, Nick?” Andrew bellowed.
“I’m sorry, Andrew. I’m sorry.” Nick’s voice came out in no more than a whisper.
Andrew clutched Max and watched Nick back away from them. In the hallway, flashing red and blue lights appeared, faint on the wall.
“I’m so sorry.” Nick’s voice came from the doorway. His hands trembled, and he lifted the gun one more time.
“Nick—” Andrew screamed.
The shot rang out, silencing the beach house.