Chapter 4 Fletcher
FLETCHER
Vince is stiff in the passenger seat, one hand on his knee, staring straight ahead. He hasn’t said much beyond giving me directions.
I didn’t believe the car battery story for a second, but pushing him for the truth tonight doesn’t feel like the right thing either. He’s struggling more than usual. Anyone paying attention can see that. But there’s something else too, something deeper. Like a part of him is ready to give up.
Streetlights flicker across his face every few seconds, slicing him into shadow and light. I keep the radio low enough to fill the silence, but not enough to drown it. I want him to know there’s no pressure with me. No urgency.
I just want to help.
“Pull in there,” Vince says, pointing to an older building behind a grocery store.
The old brick quadplex is not at all what I expected for such a put-together man. It has chips in a few places, and the light above the stairs flickers like it might go out any second.
I turn into the only available spot, near the sign labeled 2A.
Vince fumbles for the door handle, mumbling a quick, “Thanks.”
“Vince, wait.”
His entire body tenses, bracing for questions he doesn’t want to answer.
I reach for a business card in the storage compartment under the stereo and offer it to him. “Call me tomorrow and we’ll get your car.”
He seems equally relieved and surprised. “Thank you. And thanks again for the ride.”
“Of course.”
As soon as he’s out, I put the truck into reverse, ready to pull away, but something in me tells me to wait.
Vince walks to the stairs leading to the upper two-story unit, but before ascending, he pauses at the bottom and takes a deep breath. His right hand grips the railing a little too tightly, and as he starts to climb, it’s almost like he has to pull himself up. Every step is heavy and slow.
Alarm bells go off in my head. Something’s definitely not right.
I put the truck into park, waiting to see that he gets inside safely. Halfway up, Vince’s left foot misses the step. He tries to catch himself, but loses his balance, and his large frame topples backwards. I watch in horror as he tumbles down the stairs.
I’m out of the truck before I can even register it, running across the cracked pavement.
“Vince!”
He groans loudly, trying to push himself up. Blood streaks from a cut on the side of his head.
I crouch beside him. “Hey, hey—don’t move. You hit your head on the railing. You okay?”
He ignores me, sitting up anyway. He blinks a few times, as if clearing his vision.
I squeeze his shoulder to get his attention. “Seriously, man. You okay?”
“Yeah. Just… lost my footing.”
“Uh-huh,” I deadpan. I’m done accepting his bullshit excuses. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, Vince,” I snap, impatience getting the best of me. “You’re bleeding. How many fingers?”
He blinks, but the answer comes easily. “Three.”
“Good. How are your ribs? Your back? Does anything feel broken?”
He touches his left side tenderly, but shakes it off. “No. Just a bit achy. I’ll be okay.”
The way Vince keeps saying that makes me think he’s ignoring a much bigger problem. Is he getting help at all? Clearly, he needs it. Something is going on.
He tries to stand, but struggles to get his balance. I catch him and slide an arm around his back to support his weight. When he tries to pull away, I refuse to let go.
“Let me help you,” I say, harsher than necessary. I lower my voice and add more quietly, “Please.”
He finally surrenders.
I loop his arm over my shoulder and help him up the stairs. Vince is much heavier than he looks, all muscle. He leans on me hard, using his free hand to grip the railing with white knuckles. When we reach his door, he pulls away quickly. “Thanks. I’ve got it now.”
I stay close, and as soon as the lock clicks open, I step inside his apartment before he can block me.
“Dammit, Fletcher.” Vince glares at me.
“I need to check that cut out.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t argue. Probably because he’s too tired to care.
He flicks a light on before hanging his jacket on a hook by the door. His dark eyes are tight with pain, movements stiff. The cut on his head isn’t helping, blood trickling down behind his ear. I’m just glad he isn’t fighting me.
The state of his apartment is… shocking, to say the least. I have to step over a pile of shoes and dirty laundry just to get to the main living area, then around a crowded table to get to the kitchen, which is cluttered with glasses and silverware.
Seeing the roll of paper towels, I rip a few off and set them aside, then get one more and dampen it under the faucet.
By the time I return, he’s already sitting on the stairs by the door.
It’s hard to believe there is another set of stairs in his apartment, after watching him suffer through the first one. How is he even managing?
Crouching in front of him, I gently turn his face to examine the wound. He doesn’t fight me. The two-inch cut isn’t as deep as I feared, and the bleeding is already slowing down.
“It’s actually not too bad, but I want to clean it up and put something on it. Do you have a first-aid kit?”
He hesitates before gesturing upstairs.
“Do you know where? Or am I going to have to look in every cubby? Because I will.”
His hard expression softens a little. “In the bathroom, under the sink.”
I press the paper towel to the wound again. “Hold that and don’t move.”
Vince does as I ask, leaning to the side so I can step around him.
I expect the second floor to be just as messy as the first, but to my surprise, it’s almost completely clean—only a few stray socks in the hall, as if they’d fallen out of a laundry basket.
There are two bedrooms, with a single bathroom in the master suite.
It’s all fairly plain, with muted colors and white walls.
The strange thing is, though, the second floor smells like it hasn’t been used in a while, all dust and stale linens. Is Vince living downstairs?
A photo on his dresser catches my attention—five men in military uniforms standing together in a dry desert.
Afghanistan, maybe? They all look young, maybe early twenties, and they’re all grinning and flashing a hang loose symbol.
Vince is on the right with the same dimpled smile and dark brown eyes I’ve admired for weeks.
The only difference is he isn’t bald. The short, dark hair makes him seem even younger.
Stepping into the bathroom, my heart sinks when I see two open bottles of pain meds.
Nothing crazy—just Excedrin and Tylenol.
But why are they open? And why are there wads of tissue in the sink, stiff with dried blood?
I toss those in the trash and close the bottles, then look under the sink, finding a red canvas bag next to some folded towels. Bingo.
Vince is still holding the paper towels to his head when I return. He barely moves as I step around him, then kneel in front of him.
“Okay, let me see.”
“I told you, I’m fine.” Apparently two minutes of rest was enough to put some fight back into him.
I glare at him. “And I told you, you’re not. I’m not leaving until I know you’re okay, Vince.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Please. Just humor me, okay? You could have a concussion. I played football in high school. I know the signs.”
He sighs.
As he pulls his hand away, I notice some blood at the edge of his beard. I’ve never seen Vince with a beard before. He’s usually clean shaven and meticulously crisp.
“I like the beard,” I say, trying to cheer him up. “Looks good on you.”
He doesn’t reply.
Using the wet paper towel, I clean up the last of the blood. His skin is warm under my hand. Almost too warm.
It’s a long few seconds before he says in a low tone, “Don’t trust myself shaving anymore.”
His tone is full of something I can’t possibly understand. Shame, maybe?
I lean back to see him better, but he doesn’t elaborate, darting his attention away.
I cover his wound with a bandage, then sit back on my heels. “There. Good as new.”
He doesn’t look at me.
I stay crouched in front of him. “Now talk to me. What happened out there?”
“I told you, I slipped.”
“No more bullshit, Vince. Something’s going on with you, and that’s why you fell.”
His jaw ticks, and raw emotion flickers in his eyes—fear, frustration, pride. But he still doesn’t look at me.
I don’t push. I just wait.
He sighs. “My doctor thinks it’s MS, but I won’t know for certain until I see the specialist.”
My eyes widen. “MS? As in—”
“Multiple sclerosis, yeah.” The words come out heavy, like it’s the first time he’s said them out loud.
I touch his leg, needing the support just as much as he would. “Oh, damn.”
No wonder he’s in pain all the time. MS attacks the nerves. I don’t know much about the illness, but I do know that.
“And no one knows about it, do they? Declan? Piper?”
His jaw ticks again. “There’s no point in telling them. Not until I know for certain.”
“Vince, come on. They care about you.”
Does he have anyone helping him? He’s always seemed so stubbornly independent, and that can be dangerous when your life is turned upside down.
“When do you see the specialist?”
He hesitates. “The end of January.”
I swallow down what I really want to say: Are you kidding me? Three more months of torturing yourself in silence?
Not on my watch.
Vince doesn’t need to suffer through this alone.
“Well, I’m here, okay? Whatever you need.”
Vince huffs. “I don’t need pity.”
“Then I won’t offer it,” I say, leaning in. “I’m offering my support.”
The larger man exhales hard. He reaches for his boots, but stops, rubbing two fingers together like they’re bothering him.
I untie his shoes, then gently tug them off, being careful not to touch his feet. Vince grimaces in pain, barely letting each foot touch the floor.
“How long have you had symptoms?” I don’t want to push my luck with too many questions, but now I need to know. All those nights of watching him suffer at work make total sense now. He has to be miserable standing all day.
“Two years, give or take.”
I look up at him. Two years? “And when did you find out?”
“A month ago.”
I touch his knee, shaking my head slightly. “I’m not going to pretend to know what it’s like, but that really sucks. I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
“Like I said, I won’t know for sure until January. But from everything I’ve read, the symptoms fit.”
I want to ask more, but Vince grips the handrail and pulls himself up, so I get out of his way. I resist offering support. He doesn’t want pity, but he clearly isn’t thrilled about needing help.
He hobbles to the couch to sit down, arm landing on a small stack of pillows. That’s when it clicks—the stale smell upstairs, the barely used bed. Even the bloody tissues. Don’t trust myself shaving.
Vince really has been living off his couch. And if I had to guess, it’s because of the stairs.
I look around, seeing his apartment in a new light.
The clothes, which I thought were a mess, are actually divided into two piles—clean and dirty.
At least half the clean pile is folded too, like he at least tries to care.
A Taco Bell bag is on the floor by the couch, but for the most part, it’s pretty clean.
Just… thrown together. Like he keeps everything he needs within reach.
“Can you hand me that bottle of lotion?”
It’s clear the last thing Vince wants to do is ask for help, but he must be desperate enough for whatever it is.
When I see the bottle on the coffee table, I get why. It’s a pain-relief cream.
I offer it to him.
“I have an idea,” I say on a whim. “And I want you to think about it before you say no.”
Vince lifts his gaze.
I point to the stairs. “This place isn’t safe for you.”
He starts to argue, so I hold up a hand.
“It has two flights of stairs, Vince. It’s not safe. So I want you to come stay with me.”
He drops the bottle in surprise. “What?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “I have an in-law suite in the backyard that rarely gets used. It has a bed and a kitchenette. A full bathroom too, so you’d have your own space. Plus, it’s only five minutes from your work.”
His face turns red. From rage or embarrassment, I can’t be sure. It’s a long time before he speaks. “I can’t afford that.”
I shake my head. “I’m not asking for anything.”
Vince reaches for the bottle again, but doesn’t open it, turning it over in his hands like he’s at a complete loss for words. “Why?”
“Why what? Why would I offer it to you?”
He nods.
“Because it’s the right thing to do? Do I need a reason?
” Has he forgotten I witnessed him nearly break his neck on the stairs?
“Like I said, the suite barely gets used. My daughter will occasionally have slumber parties in there with her friends, but that’s about it.
Oh, I guess that is one hard rule you’d need to agree to.
No going to the main house when Georgie is there, unless I’m home. At least until we know you.”
Vince relaxes. “That’s reasonable.”
“You’re agreeing then? You’ll stay with me?”
Vince pulls one foot up by the hem of his pants and gently peels his sock off. After uncapping the bottle, he squirts some of the lotion onto his heel. A pungent menthol scent fills the air, but it’s like he has to build himself up to touch his feet, grimacing at the first contact.
“How soon could I come?”
I shrug. “Tonight, if you want.”
He pauses, once again stunned.
“I’m serious. I’ll help you pack what you need for a few days, and we can come back later for more.”
When he doesn’t reply, I relax my stance. “Truthfully, I’d rather you come tonight so I don’t have to worry about you on the stairs again. I can still drive you to get your car tomorrow. There’s plenty of room for you to park at my place.”
Uncertainty flashes across Vince’s face. “I’ll still feel like I owe you something.”
“Then have dinner with me a few times a week. That’s all I ask.
” I realize a little too late how that must sound, so I scramble to add, “What I mean is… my house is too quiet these days. My daughter is rarely home, and even when she is, she’s in her room.
Typical teenager, you know. Off in her own little world.
I’m just not used to it, so I’d like some company, is all. ”
“No wife?”
I bite back a laugh. “No. I’m divorced.”
Vince looks like he wants to ask more, but changes his mind. Slowly, he draws in a long breath and nods. “Okay. Fine. Thank you.”
It’s a reluctant yes, but a yes nonetheless.
“Great. Where’s a bag? I’ll help you pack.”