I got in my car, stowed the box and my purse, and fired it up then pulled out my cell to call Martha to see if she was home for me to come by and hang for a quick glass of wine before heading to Brock’s. But it rang as my finger hovered to slide it on.

It said Cob Calling.

My brows drew together.

Cob and I had exchanged phone numbers but he’d never phoned me. I’d, of course, seen him on occasion, considering we’d just finished holiday season, and during it, he’d popped over to see his boys and give them presents.

And when I’d seen him I’d noted the obvious and that was that he was not looking good. His treatments had started in earnest, his weight was dropping at an alarming rate, his eyes were sinking into his head, and his skin appeared sallow. He did not complain and acted his usual self but the physical manifestations of the treatments were impossible to miss.

My heart skipped a beat. I took the call and put my phone to my ear.

“Hey, Cob.”

“Sweetheart,” he replied and he sounded about five times worse than he looked the last time I saw him, so my heart skipped another beat.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I had…” He stopped.

“Cob?” I called. “You there?” I asked when he didn’t say anything more.

“Honey, I had an accident. Jill brought me home and she and Laurie…” He paused. “They’ve been doin’ so much. I can’t—”

Damn.

I quickly cut him off with, “Where do you live?”

“I wouldn’t ask. It’s just—”

“Cob, where do you live?”

He didn’t say anything until right before I opened my mouth to repeat my question.

“This shits me,” he whispered. “It shits me, Tess. So damned embarra—”

“Cob,” I broke in quietly. “Honey, where do you live?”

He hesitated and then gave me his address and I knew where it was.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I promised.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he whispered.

“Hang tight,” I said, disconnected, tossed my phone on my purse, backed out, and headed to Cob’s.

Cob lived in Baker Historical District, not far from where Brock used to live. Baker was a great ’hood, a mishmash of houses, personality, and most folks took care of their homes.

Cob’s was tiny with a chain-link fence, an overabundance of tall trees planted close to the house, which would, in summer, totally block out any light, and a look that said he didn’t spend much time keeping up with the Joneses even when he wasn’t being treated for cancer.

I knocked on the door and entered when I heard him call weakly, “It’s open.”

When I entered, I was assaulted immediately with the hideous smell of vomit.

Oh God.