“Because they told me they were going to,” he confesses. “They asked my opinion first. We discussed an intervention. Luckily, Chuck brought the envelope with him from your vehicle that contains the disciplinary measures taken against you, which frankly couldn’t have come at a better time.”
Curious, I ask, “And you think they’re fair?”
“I think asking you to go to rehab is more than reasonable.” He huffs. “They could’ve just as easily fired you.”
“Rehab!” I yell in outrage. “Come on, Holden, you’re crazy.” I expect him to crack a smile and tell me he’s joking, but his mouth remains in a tight line. “You have to be kidding me.”
“My wife is all banged up, lucky she didn’t kill herself or someone else in a drunk driving accident, and this is what you want to say to me?”
“Holden,” I plead, “I’ll quit drinking. But rehab? That’s ludicrous.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“But I mean it this time.”
“Sibley . . .”
“This is a wake-up call.”
“It should be, but I fear it’s not.” He throws his hands in the air. “We’re out of options.”
I don’t know what to say, so I stare down at my hands, observing small cuts on both knuckles. Before I can think of an answer, a loud tap on the doorframe causes me to look past Holden at Chuck’s sun-wrinkled face.
His loud baritone carries across the room. “You don’t have a choice in the matter, Sibley.”
“What’re you talking about, Chuck?”
Without breaking eye contact, he crosses the room and hands me a pill. “Here’s something for the pain.”
I put it on the tip of my tongue and swallow it with the rest of the water.
“What don’t I have a choice about?” I finish.
“I’ll make you a deal.”
“Charles,” I sigh, using his real name. The name he hates to be called.
“It’s straightforward. You should’ve been arrested and charged with a DUI.”
I give him my best, albeit pained, smile. “You called your cop buddies, and I appreciate the favor; I really do . . .”
“And took you to my doctor friend. And got your car towed to the junkyard. And brought you home.” His brief glance nails me to the headboard. “Let me be clear. There is no second chance. Or fourth. Or seventh. You have a drinking problem, Sibley. Your work has asked you—no, instructed you—to go to a clinic. If I tell them what happened or breathe a word of this to them, they’ll fire you in a heartbeat, whether you’re charged with driving under the influence or not.”
“Why would you do that?” I grit my teeth. “Are you threatening me?”
“No.” His voice softens. “You remind me of my own children, and I’m not going to let you just trash your life. You’ve worked hard, and I know you’ve had a hard go of it, losing your father, having an absentee mother . . .”
Taking a quick peek at Holden, I can tell he’s hurt this strange man he’s never met knows about my past when it’s hard for us to discuss.
“How did you know about . . .” I hold up a hand. “Who told you?”
“I’m a PI. You don’t think I investigate colleagues I work with too?”
“Don’t you dare bring my parents into this,” I say, but without conviction.
Chuck points at Holden. “Your husband loves and cares about you. The firm cares about you. We want you to get better. We’re rooting for you. All of us. But we can’t do the work for you; you got to take ownership of that part.”
I sniffle loudly. “You would never do this to your own kid.”
“I absolutely would, and I did. My son, Joseph.” He motions for Holden to switch spots with him. As he settles next to me on the bed, his eyes drill into my tearful ones. “Joe got in trouble for theft and drugs and was going down a nasty path. I put him behind bars when I was an officer. Hardest damn arrest I’ve ever made.”
“You put your own son in jail?”
He nods. “And I don’t regret it one bit. He needed that to straighten out. And now I’m going to serve you up some tough love as well.” His hand swipes a tear from my cheek. “You could have been killed today.”
“But I was just trying to help,” I whisper.
“I told you nothing good would come of it.”
Since I don’t remember, I don’t bother to argue, but that doesn’t mean I can’t search my memory for a reason I would go against Chuck’s advice.
“Sib.” Chuck cuts into my pensive thoughts. “I’ve known you for a long time. Go to rehab. Get your head right. I’m going to keep after the other case we were working on, but I’m calling a time-out on the Marconas.”
“But what about . . .”
“No rebuttals.”
Glancing between Holden and me, he adds, “I have a letter from my cop friend. Your license is automatically suspended for ninety days, but if you go to rehab and complete the program successfully, you won’t be charged with driving under the influence.”
“I don’t think that’s legal.”
“Sibley.” Holden stomps his foot. “You will sign off on this, or we will have other matters to discuss.”
Chuck shakes his head at him, as if in warning. “You don’t have anything to discuss right now except Sibley’s health and mental wellness.”
“Oh, really?” I challenge Holden. “Like what?”
Blushing crimson, Holden doesn’t engage, likely realizing he’s about to unleash our own marital problems on someone he doesn’t know. “The firm was making you sign off on rehab, anyway,” Holden says pointedly. “To keep your job.”
Chuck’s eyes look troubled at this declaration, but he says nothing. Instead, he leans forward and grips my hand in his large one. “I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Papers are downstairs.” Chuck nods at Holden. “You have my cell, right?”
“I do now.”
I motion to where my handbag usually rests on the dresser. “Speaking of that, I need mine. Did you happen to bring my purse home?”
“I did.” Chuck beckons to Holden. “I gave it to your husband.”
“Good. Call me if you need anything.”
“Let me walk you
