Chapter 27
CHAPTER 27
FRANK
F rank clicked through the TV channels, grumbling to himself. Dagnabbit. Christmas programs monopolized every station. Why did he pay for the pricier cable package when every channel played the same thing? Maybe Bevy was right—maybe the whole streaming fad was the way to go.
Frustrated by the abysmal selection, he didn’t even mind when the landline bellowed, demanding his presence in the kitchen. Maybe it would be a solicitor from the cable company. He’d give him an earful.
“Hello?” he barked.
“Mr. Barrie, it’s Susan.” The woman sounded so distraught Frank instantly softened.
“What seems to be the trouble?”
“It’s Nate. I just got off the phone with him a few minutes ago. I’m afraid I had to give him some bad news.”
“What sort of bad news?” The new French roast turned out to be a little bitter kind of bad news? Or an entire crop of Brazilian beans was decimated by coffee berry borers—the bane of every farmer’s livelihood—kind of news?
“One of his friends in the shelter was in an accident a few days ago. Someone he was mentoring. He’s in critical condition. Nate took it pretty hard.”
Drat . The poor kid. The bad news definitely rivaled a coffee borer–level catastrophe. Maybe worse.
“What can I do?”
“Keep an eye on him. Make sure he’s okay. He, uh, had an issue a while back. I didn’t mention it because it hasn’t been a concern for over a year.”
“What kind of issue?” Frank’s pulse quickened. He didn’t like where this conversation was headed.
“Prescription sleeping pills.”
Frank scrunched his eyes shut. He was afraid it would be something like that.
“I hate that my thoughts are even going down this road,” Susan admitted, sniffling. “I trust Nate. I really do. At least, I want to. But there was something in his voice when we got off the phone. I don’t know how to describe it. But it scared me enough to call you.”
Frank opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on the hallway leading to his bedroom—where he kept his medications. “Thanks for the call. I’ll check on Nate. He’s in good hands.” He didn’t offer her false assurances like Bevy might have. He imagined his wife would say something like, Don’t worry, everything will be fine . But Frank couldn’t promise that.
He wanted to believe in the boy. Private Henderson had given him every reason to trust him explicitly. And yet, tragedy—especially concerning a close friend—could do funny things to a man. It could tie him into knots until up looked like down and down looked like up.
He replaced the receiver and shuffled into their bedroom, heading straight for Bevy’s nightstand. She insisted on keeping his sleeping pills on her side, since he apparently couldn’t be trusted to take them.
He yanked open the drawer. He’d find the pills and rule out Susan’s suspicion. Moving aside Bevy’s Bible, an extra pair of reading glasses, and stack of paperbacks, he found several plastic bottles with her name on them, but no sleeping pills.
His heart rate accelerated again, much too fast for a man his age. Maybe Bevy accidentally put them away in his nightstand? He ambled across the room and checked his side of the bed, aggressively rummaging through his belongings with a single-minded focus.
Where were the pills?
He grabbed an orange bottle from the back of the drawer, squinting at the label. Why did they make the font so small?
Heart medication. Drat . He flung the bottle over his shoulder onto the bed, and immediately grabbed another one. No luck . He checked several more, then jerked the drawer from the nightstand and spilled the contents onto the quilted comforter.
Still no sleeping pills.
He moved the hunt to the bathroom, flinging open every drawer and cupboard willy-nilly, like a burglar in search of priceless jewels.
He had to find the pills somewhere. Because the alternative—that Nate had taken them—simply couldn’t be true.