“Jesus Christ.” Before his brain could convince his body to run to the bathroom, he spewed vomit onto the pinkish slices of rare beef on the floor. The computer cord slipped from his neck. It landed in the foul mess.

There was a knock on the door.

God. Not the police again.

He spun around. And lost his balance. He staggered against the door.

“Harry. It’s Randall.”

Go away.

Why was his lawyer here in the middle of the night? Had the police called him?

“Harry!” Randall Barrett rapped the door, this time more loudly. “I need to speak to you. It’s urgent.”

What could be so urgent at this time of night?

“It’s about your father.”

Harry’s legs weakened. His father.

He unlocked the door and swung it open.

Shock flashed through Randall’s eyes. “May I come in?”

Harry stood back and allowed him in.

Randall’s gaze took in the plate that had been knocked to the ground, the computer cord that lay snake-like on the mound of Harry’s vomit.

“Sorry about the mess.” Harry grabbed a napkin and threw it over the evidence of his alcoholic binge, staggering at the sudden motion.

“Harry, you should sit down.” His lawyer put a concerned arm around his back, ushering him to the sofa, waiting until he complied. Then he took the glass of water from the room service cart and handed it to Harry. “Drink this.”

He gulped the water. It was cool. But it couldn’t eradicate the foul taste of his vomit. “What time is it?” He needed to get to the park. And then he remembered why Randall had come. “Is my father okay?”

Randall sat on the chair opposite him. Although neatly dressed in a navy polo shirt and jeans, fatigue shadowed his eyes. “It’s just after two a.m. Your father is asking for you. I came because the hospital asked me.”

“Why did they ask you?”

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

His phone. His damned phone. It hadn’t stopped ringing, buzzing, chiming. Half a bottle of scotch hadn’t put a halt to it. So he had tossed it into the bathtub and closed the door. And then proceeded to down the rest of the bottle.

“Is my father okay?” Harry barely dared to ask. What if his dad had died—and Harry hadn’t been there?

“He’s awake. He’s refusing sedation. He’s asking for you. The hospital wants permission to give him another dose of anti-anxiety medication.” Randall’s gaze was concerned. “I’ve been texting and calling you for the past hour.”

“I’m sorry.” I was too busy getting rid of the police and planning a murder to come look after my father.

Randall stood. “Can I drive you to the hospital?”

“What time is it again?”

A small frown creased between Randall’s eyes. “It’s after two a.m.”