Chapter 57
FIFTY-SEVEN
Mystic Church
“I understand it takes courage to share,” Gil, the leader of the AA meeting said.
Tobacco-stained teeth stood. “Name’s Bob, but most folks call me Rooster on account of I grew up on a chicken farm.”
“Hi, Bob,” the group chimed together.
Bob blushed, shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at his feet, then shifted back and forth nervously. “I’ve been here before but didn’t have the nerve to speak up. Now, I guess it’s time I unload some crap from my chest.”
“Take your time, Bob,” Gil said with an understanding nod.
Bob cleared his throat. “Two years ago, my wife was killed by a drunk driver.” He mopped his face with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket.
“We’d been together for twenty-two years and I took it hard.
I’m not proud to say it, but I was so angry I turned to the bottle myself.
Then one night I found the woman who hit her.
She was some rich broad who should have gone to jail, but her husband knew people, higher-ups, and she got off with a fine.
It wasn’t right.” His voice cracked. “Dumbass me followed her to a party and watched her guzzling champagne, and I flew into a rage. As she stumbled out to her car, half sloshed, I confronted her. And… she yelled at me and I… grabbed her arms and shook her. Then she screamed and some of her haughty friends came out and called the cops.” He shook his head as if the memory was fresh in his head.
Then a bitter laugh rumbled from his chest. “Course I got arrested and spent a year in jail for assault while she killed my wife and went back out and partied.”
Murmurs of sympathy and understanding echoed through the room.
“Now I gotta be here as part of my parole. To fulfill my community service, I also joined an advocacy team against drunk driving.” Bob’s chair clanked as he dropped back into it with a grunt.
Tilly wondered if Bob resented being forced into AA. And if he was bitter enough to kill teenagers who’d suffered from an addiction problem or who’d received a DUI.
Gil broke the silence. “Thanks for sharing, Bob. Your story is very tragic. Even though this is part of your parole requirements, I hope we can help you.”
Bob said nothing, but his jaw was clenched so tightly a vein pulsed in his neck as he stared at everyone in the room.
“Anyone else care to share?” Gil asked.
Myra, the woman who’d greeted Tilly when she’d arrived, stood. “I’m Myra, those who’ve been before know me as the candy lady. I found the only way to curb my cravings for wine is chocolate.”
“Hi, Myra,” the group chorused.
The tension softened in the room as a few people agreed that sweets helped them curb their appetites for alcohol.
“Ice cream is a close second,” Myra said wryly.
“This is month seven for me and my sobriety journey. It’s still a daily struggle, but I’m determined to kick the habit this time and grateful to have the support this group has brought.
My daughter, who I’ve been estranged from for two years, has agreed to bring her kids to see me at Christmas, as long as I remain sober. ”
Tilly offered her a smile, thinking of her own mother who’d blamed her for her sister’s disappearance.
Next a nice-looking brown-haired man in his thirties wearing a dress shirt and gray slacks stood.
“Kyle Limbach. I’m an OB-GYN. The last two years have been rough.
I lost a couple of patients, and the stress caused me to unravel.
” He paused. “But I realize that’s an excuse.
I’m now in counseling to learn more healthy coping skills. I’m 223 days clean.”
Murmurs of congratulations followed as he seated himself.
The man with black spiked hair in a black T-shirt and black jeans stood. “Thomas. I’m an attorney. In the past six months, I lost a friend, another lawyer, to suicide. I started numbing with cocktails until the situation got out of hand.” He held up a chip. “Today marks one month.”
“One day at a time,” Gil said with in encouraging tone.
“Anyone else?” Gil asked.
Tilly inhaled then slowly stood. She lifted a shaky hand and wound her hair around her fingers, fixating on the space behind Gil.
A bulletin board held information about AA and the twelve steps, along with a calendar of social gatherings with various groups and additional programs and speakers offered.
“I’m Lily,” she said, using a twist on her real name.
“My sister disappeared years ago and my family blamed me. Last year I discovered she was murdered. The ordeal sent me spiraling. And I’m struggling to get back on track.
” She was tempted to mention that the news segment about Minnie had triggered her.
But if Minnie’s killer was in the room, she might raise suspicion.
Undercover work required time and patience. At least now she had names and stories she could take back to Ellie.
Unless one of the others in the room had lied about his identity as she had because he was a killer.