you’re going through. I do. It’s just that I don’t want to jeopardize the bigger picture. Does that make sense?”
“I suppose so,” I admitted begrudgingly. “My dad hated systems. The institutions, especially. I get it. And I admire what you’re trying to do here.” I took a deep breath before continuing. “So, since you’re way more familiar with this world than I am, do you happen to have any other suggestions for me? What I could do to try to find him? I have his pictures at all the hospitals and I even went and saw a body last night who I thought might be him . . .” To my horror, I choked up as I spoke, and the tears started to fall. “Sorry, sorry,” I said, wiping at my cheeks with fluttering fingers. “I don’t know where this is coming from.”
Most men get a little panicky when a woman begins to cry and Jack was no exception. His eyes darted around the room until he found the box of tissues behind him and set it in front of me. “Those are the worst kind of tears, right? The sneaky bastards.” He pulled a few tissues out and handed them to me over the desk.
I sniffed and laughed at the same time, again horrified as I made a chortled, snot-filled sound. “Sorry.” I took the tissues. “Thanks.”
He made a dismissive motion with his hand and smiled, a slightly crooked expression that was oddly charming. “Don’t worry about it. As long as it wasn’t me making you cry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just tend to get pretty protective of this place. And the people in it. I can come off a little abrupt.”
I thought of my brief interaction with Natalie in the kitchen earlier and suddenly, I wasn’t quite as irritated with Jack. I could even relate to the enthusiasm he felt about what he was doing. “I get it,” I said with a sweet smile, figuring I’d see if he had a sense of humor. “You’re more of an impassioned idealist than a jerk.”
Jack threw his head back and laughed. “Definitely an idealist.” He chuckled again, then looked at me. “Have you thought about hiring a private detective to help find your dad?”
I nodded. “I have, but it’s too expensive. I’ve looked all over the Internet and tried to get his medical records from the last institution he was in, but all they would tell me is his last time in residence, which was three years ago.”
“Where was the last place you know for sure he was, besides there?” Jack asked.
“I have an old address on Capitol Hill. But that was years ago. It says in the white pages that a totally different person lives there now. A woman.”
“So you never checked it out?”
“No. I figured there wasn’t much point.”
“It’s a place to start, though, right? You could talk to the neighbors, see if anyone remembers him.”
“I suppose I could.” I smiled again. “Thanks.”
“And you’re welcome to come volunteer any time you like. If you spent some time here, you might get to know some of the guys. If your dad is on the streets, he may even stop by, eventually.”
“You won’t let me put up a picture but you’ll let me come talk to your clients?”
“As long as you’re willing to help out, I don’t see why not. You get information from people by building relationships. To do that, you need to hang out with them. Do you have any special skills?”
“I’m a chef.”
“Perfect,” Jack said, and clapped his hands together. “Let’s say we find out what you can do with a couple hundred pounds of potatoes.”
February 1989
David
David knew he needed to get out of bed. Five days had passed since he escaped the house to the sanctuary of his studio. Five days spent beneath the covers of the twin mattress he kept on the floor next to his easel. His eyes were gritty. His body ached from lack of movement and the cold. The space heater only ran sporadically, shutting down as soon as the elements burned too hot. Maybe there would be a fire. Maybe he could let the flames lick his skin and welcome
“I suppose so,” I admitted begrudgingly. “My dad hated systems. The institutions, especially. I get it. And I admire what you’re trying to do here.” I took a deep breath before continuing. “So, since you’re way more familiar with this world than I am, do you happen to have any other suggestions for me? What I could do to try to find him? I have his pictures at all the hospitals and I even went and saw a body last night who I thought might be him . . .” To my horror, I choked up as I spoke, and the tears started to fall. “Sorry, sorry,” I said, wiping at my cheeks with fluttering fingers. “I don’t know where this is coming from.”
Most men get a little panicky when a woman begins to cry and Jack was no exception. His eyes darted around the room until he found the box of tissues behind him and set it in front of me. “Those are the worst kind of tears, right? The sneaky bastards.” He pulled a few tissues out and handed them to me over the desk.
I sniffed and laughed at the same time, again horrified as I made a chortled, snot-filled sound. “Sorry.” I took the tissues. “Thanks.”
He made a dismissive motion with his hand and smiled, a slightly crooked expression that was oddly charming. “Don’t worry about it. As long as it wasn’t me making you cry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just tend to get pretty protective of this place. And the people in it. I can come off a little abrupt.”
I thought of my brief interaction with Natalie in the kitchen earlier and suddenly, I wasn’t quite as irritated with Jack. I could even relate to the enthusiasm he felt about what he was doing. “I get it,” I said with a sweet smile, figuring I’d see if he had a sense of humor. “You’re more of an impassioned idealist than a jerk.”
Jack threw his head back and laughed. “Definitely an idealist.” He chuckled again, then looked at me. “Have you thought about hiring a private detective to help find your dad?”
I nodded. “I have, but it’s too expensive. I’ve looked all over the Internet and tried to get his medical records from the last institution he was in, but all they would tell me is his last time in residence, which was three years ago.”
“Where was the last place you know for sure he was, besides there?” Jack asked.
“I have an old address on Capitol Hill. But that was years ago. It says in the white pages that a totally different person lives there now. A woman.”
“So you never checked it out?”
“No. I figured there wasn’t much point.”
“It’s a place to start, though, right? You could talk to the neighbors, see if anyone remembers him.”
“I suppose I could.” I smiled again. “Thanks.”
“And you’re welcome to come volunteer any time you like. If you spent some time here, you might get to know some of the guys. If your dad is on the streets, he may even stop by, eventually.”
“You won’t let me put up a picture but you’ll let me come talk to your clients?”
“As long as you’re willing to help out, I don’t see why not. You get information from people by building relationships. To do that, you need to hang out with them. Do you have any special skills?”
“I’m a chef.”
“Perfect,” Jack said, and clapped his hands together. “Let’s say we find out what you can do with a couple hundred pounds of potatoes.”
February 1989
David
David knew he needed to get out of bed. Five days had passed since he escaped the house to the sanctuary of his studio. Five days spent beneath the covers of the twin mattress he kept on the floor next to his easel. His eyes were gritty. His body ached from lack of movement and the cold. The space heater only ran sporadically, shutting down as soon as the elements burned too hot. Maybe there would be a fire. Maybe he could let the flames lick his skin and welcome
Similar Books
