Mrs. Bhatt was three degrees removed from the tragedy of my father’s death, but she had the time and energy to help Amira figure out how to help me. When my mother was burying herself in work to avoid having to exist in rooms haunted by my father’s memory.

Not that it worked. One day, Amira just stopped coming over. She stopped snapping and texting me. She basically ghosted me, and I let her go, because what was the point of trying to keep someone around when that someone didn’t want to be around?

My father taught me that lesson.

“What else did she say?”

“Not much.” Amira pulls into the spot one over from my car and shifts into park. She twists in the driver’s seat to face me. “I didn’t ask much. But, honestly, what she did tell me about your dad was pretty much in line with what that lady in the salon said.”

“What about the rest of what that lady said?”

My voice sounds as hollow as I feel, as I silently beg her to say something warm. Something validating about my father, or the rest of my family. Something to fill this void inside me so it will stop sucking at the world around me.

“The rest of it?”

“I know my dad had issues when he got back from Afghanistan that last time. But my mom’s not a crooked cop. Even if my dad had gotten into some legal trouble—and he didn’t, as far as I know—she would never have broken the law to get him out of it. I don’t think she even could.” I shrug. “I mean, that’s not really how it works. Cops don’t decide who gets prosecuted.”

“I only know what I’ve heard, Beckett.” Amira looks worried now. There’s something she doesn’t want to tell me.

“Which is what?”

With a sigh, she pulls her keys from the ignition and drops them on her lap. “Last year there were all kinds of rumors about your dad.”

“Because he went into rehab?” And because I called the fire chief? I know he tried to fill his void with pills and alcohol. And I know that that killed him.

Amira shrugs. “Cabrini’s mom works at the hospital. She said your dad came in through the ER all the time, and that he kept asking the doctor for a prescription. She called him a ‘frequent flyer.’ ”

“Because he was in the ER a lot? He broke his leg in three places, Amira. He was in constant pain, even after the cast came off.”

“I know!” She nods, eager to agree. To sympathize. “But that’s not what her mother meant. Cabrini said frequent flyers are the people who come in complaining of pain just to get a script. They’re … notorious. Because they’re there so often. Some of them even hurt themselves on purpose just to get pills.”

“My father never did that.” My jaw aches from clenching my teeth. “He would never.”