A Man of Honor by Miranda Liasson Page A

Vernon salvation.
    “Oh, c’mon now, son. You’re a powerful man. I figured you could get me some time off for good behavior.”
    Good behavior for his father tended to last about as long as a TV commercial. Suddenly, it was all too much. The stench, his father’s rattly cough, and the beat-up house with all those memories he wanted to keep locked up forever. The longer he stood there, the more they were all clamoring to bust out. Thank God he’d gotten himself and his brother out of here for good. “Well, I was—stopping by to check on the place. I’ll be going.”
    “Say, son, you wouldn’t happen to have a couple of bucks I could borrow, would you? Just until my disability check comes in.”
    Preston reached blindly into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. As a rule, he never carried much cash. As he reached for the fifty he always kept tucked away for emergencies, he couldn’t help but see a flash of the photo he placed front and center, one of three he carried with him at all times. One was of his mother. The next one was Jared’s high school graduation photo, and the one in the front, of the sexy, smiling woman, was Cat. He ran his thumb over her beautiful face like she was some sort of talisman meant to shield him from this evil. “That’s all I’ve got.” He handed his old man the bill, then turned to exit the house.
    “Oh, Preston,” his father said, beckoning him back.
    He stopped but didn’t turn around.
    “I noticed your checks have stopped coming since I was supposed to be in rehab.”
    “That’s right, but I paid for the rehab program, Vernon. It’s one of the finest in the country.”
    “Pretty hoity-toity it was, too. Kids of celebrities and some washed-up actors pretending to be undercover. All them with their vegan meals and their power smoothies…what a bunch of bullshit. That cookbook guru was there—the one with that fancy cooking show on Food Network. Guess he used his wine for more than just cooking.”
    Preston calculated that he was around twenty steps from the door. They could end up being the longest twenty steps of his life. “Go back to rehab. They can help you.”
    “Nothing can help me, son. My problems started with a long-term injury, too, just like what you have. Pills, booze, nothing would numb the pain. You’ll see how pain and disability can drag a man down. Make him into something he’s not. You’ll see how it is.”
    Like hell he would. Preston clenched his fists to avoid saying anything he’d regret. The doctors at the VA Preston had been transferred to after he’d left DC told him he was their most stubborn patient, as by that time, he’d staunchly refused all pain meds. They’d had no idea why. A blur of black fur crossed his path. Preston made a clumsy dive and scooped the animal up. Over his shoulder, he said, “I’ll keep Harry while you’re gone.”
    That meant forever, whether his father went back to rehab or not, but Preston was certain his father wouldn’t put up a fight. Hell, he didn’t care that he’d left the cat, so he sure wouldn’t notice it was gone. Sometimes you could only do so much. Because his father was a hopeless case, but the animal wasn’t.
    …
    “Got what I came for,” Preston said as he climbed clumsily into Cat’s car while trying to hold on to the frightened cat.
    “Oh, a kitty!” Cat said, immediately reaching over to get acquainted. She crooned to it and scratched behind its ears and petted its sleek black back. Not only did the thing relax, but it nudged her hand to ask for more. “What’s its name?” she asked.
    “Harry,” Preston said. He decided to drop the “Dirty.” At least one of them should have a chance to put their best foot forward with Cat.
    “It’s scrawny.”
    “And filthy and neglected. I’m sorry to bring it in your car.”
    “It’s no problem. I have flea medicine at home. And tuna fish. We can stop by.”
    Preston barely registered her words. He couldn’t help looking back