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Chapter 2

The Room 

Will already knew what to expect before he reached the door: the faint sting of disinfectant undercut by burnt coffee; fluorescent light glaring off scuffed linoleum; a woman at the front ready to talk about choices, consequences, and tomorrow. He smelled disappointment and something that pretended to be hope.

He lingered in the hallway, boots scraping the edge of a faded carpet runner. The voices inside blended together—low, tired, familiar. He thought of them as bots, people who leaned on slogans because slogans never asked questions.

A sharp laugh cut through the murmur.

“Are you going to stand out there eavesdropping like a kid,” a woman called, tone flat and amused, “or are you coming in?”

Will squared his shoulders, drew a breath that tasted like bleach and regret, and pushed the door open.

The smell hit first—old sweat, anxious adrenaline, the faint copper tang of fear. Folding chairs filled the room, every one occupied by a version of damage he recognized without wanting to: a man with a fading bruise behind his ear, another tapping his foot like he was waiting for bad news, a woman gripping a sweater so hard her knuckles had gone white.

At the front sat Emma St. John. Legs crossed. Pen tapping once against a yellow legal pad. Her eyes didn’t soften when they found him. They weighed him. Measured him. Moved on.

“Well, look at that,” she said. “We got ourselves a statue.”

A few people snorted.

“Everyone,” she added, “let’s welcome the statue.”

“Hey, Statue.”

Will’s jaw tightened. He scanned the room for sympathy and found none. This was supposed to be part of his punishment—tough love, no coddling. He sat, anger curdling in his gut.

“I’m Will,” he said, voice low. “I’m an addict.”

Emma leaned back slightly, pen hovering. “Look at that. The statue talks. Larry, tap him and see if he says something else.”

Larry, broad-shouldered and sweating through his T-shirt, hesitated just long enough to make it real. Then he drove a fist into Will’s ribs.

The air left Will in a sharp, hollow burst. Pain flared hot and immediate. He folded forward, a sound tearing out of him before he could stop it.

“Well,” Emma said, nodding like she was checking a box, “he screams with conviction.”

She tilted her head. “That’s enough.”

The room exhaled.

Will straightened slowly, hand pressed to his side. Something in him had gone still, alert. Larry stepped back, grinning.

“Seems like he’s not a statue after all.”

Will met Emma’s gaze. “Who the hell are you?”

She didn’t blink. “Who are you, and why are you really here?”

“I told you,” he snapped. “I’m an addict.”

Her mouth curved, but there was no warmth in it. “That one sounded like you meant it.”

The group murmured.

Will sat, shoulders tight. This wasn’t landing the way he’d planned.

Emma waited, then said, “Stand up again. Tell us the truth.”

“Straight?” Will asked.

“Hells yes,” she said. “Or get out and stop wasting our time.”

Will stood because sitting felt like hiding.

“I’m hooked on stupid things,” he said. “Online games that don’t matter. Noise. Anything that keeps my head from getting too quiet.”

A few people nodded. Recognition, not sympathy.

“And when that doesn’t work,” he went on, faster now, like momentum might carry him through, “I look for distractions that don’t ask questions. People who don’t care who I am when the lights come on. Transactions. No names. No expectations.”

The room shifted. No laughter this time.

“I drink,” Will said. “Because it’s easier than remembering what I’m avoiding.”

He sat back down hard, chest tight, like he’d admitted to something worse than addiction.

Emma studied him, pen still.

“That’s a lot of effort,” she said, “for a man who claims he just wants to numb out.”

Her voice dropped.

“Nobody works that hard to disappear unless they’re running from something specific.”

Silence pressed in from all sides.

Will stared at his shoes.

“Meeting’s over,” Emma said. “You—statue—grab a coffee with me.”

The diner down the street smelled like scorched bread and old grease. Will slid into a cracked vinyl booth across from Emma, a mug of black coffee steaming between them like a truce he didn’t trust. His hands clenched around the rim until his knuckles went pale.

She waited.

Ally’s name came out first.

Then the rest followed—halting, uneven. The floor screaming under weight. Steel giving way. Sirens. Joseph fighting for breath on the gurney. Surgery. The quiet, cruel fact of Joseph dying anyway.

Will tore napkins from the dispenser, wiped his face, balled them up like they could hold the mess. He pulled out a cigarette pack, crushed it in his fist, smoothed it, crushed it again.

“I should’ve been there,” he said. “He was supposed to come home. Watch them fall in love. Walk his daughter down the aisle. See his boy make it to the pros. We both knew that kid had it.”

Emma said nothing.

“If someone had to die,” Will said, voice breaking despite him, “it should’ve been me.”

She let the silence stretch until it hurt.

Then she said, quietly, “Joseph knew what was at stake. He suited up every day. He died doing what he believed in.” She looked at him. “Why are you trying to take that from him?”

Will stared at the stained tabletop. His shoulders sagged, something finally giving way.

Outside, rain misted the street, turning the light soft and smeared. Will lit a cigarette, the ember flaring between his fingers. Emma reached for it after his first drag, took one herself, and handed it back.

They stood there in the drizzle, jackets darkening, the city breathing around them.

Nothing was fixed.

But nothing was hidden anymore.