The Santa balloon bobbed above him, his cheerful grin now a judgmental smirk. Nate punched the Santa in the face.

“Wow, what’s your problem with Santa?” Kia asked from behind him.

Nate whirled. “Well, he’s a bit of a prick, isn’t he?”

Kia eyed him. “Do you want to tell me what’s really going on?”

I think my wife’s cheating on me. My son might die. I need this promotion so I have the money to get him the treatment he needs and I’m running out of time. I’m weak. A coward. A failure.

But he couldn’t say any of it out loud. He could change a flat tire, save a newborn baby, stop the bad guy from hurting the good guy, but he couldn’t admit weakness in front of a colleague. If word got around, they might take his badge. His gun. And then who would he be?

He stuck a toothpick between his teeth and smiled. Everyone loved Nate for his smile, his cheerful disposition. The problem was, the feelings crammed in his chest were getting harder and harder to ignore.

“That was Dyson.” He told her about the call from the pharmacist. She whistled long and low.

“Do you think someone from Allegiance Health Clinic is fraudulently signing prescriptions of oxy?” Kia asked.

“That or someone got hold of Wallington’s prescription pad.”

Dyson’s text pinged on Nate’s phone just as Nate caught sight of a familiar face barreling toward him. One he hadn’t wanted to ever see again.

Robbie’s mother hadn’t aged well. Her eyes were as droopy as Nate’s basset hound’s. The lines on her face were so deep they looked like they’d been carved into her skin. The peculiar dull throb of old grief and guilt battered him.

“Nate! Nate Sweeney!”

Sweat prickled on his skin. He had to get out of there. Nate thrust his sandwich and M&M’s at Kia and yanked his phone out of his pocket.

“Gotta make this call.” He strode quickly outside.

The season had turned surly, the air pricked with a gray mist. The threat of more snow hung heavy in the air.

Nate hunched low in the driver’s seat, his hands clutching the steering wheel. His fingernails had dried, blood caked under the nail beds. He dialed the number Dyson had texted him.

“Hello, Lynnwood Pharmacy,” a cheery voice answered.

“Hello, may I speak to Maryanne Rosenstein?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Detective Nate Sweeney. You called the Skamania Police Department about a prescription signed by Dr. Chad Wallington.”

“Yes! Dr. Wallington’s my brother-in-law. He married my sister two weeks ago, and they’re on their honeymoon in Barbados. I don’t think he signed this prescription.”

“Can doctors postdate prescriptions?”

“Some, yes. But not usually for opiates like OxyContin, which are highly controlled and regulated. A doctor wouldn’t postdate it past a week.”