He takes a key from his pocket and undoes the handcuffs. He removes the restraints as well.

He smiles. “I should have removed those long ago. Call it a symbolic gesture leaving them on. I wanted you to get a clear picture of the direction your life could take when you woke. You are not under arrest any longer. The judge released you to my custody this morning. You’ve already passed the seventy-two-hour psych hold for the suicide attempt. You are now a voluntary patient here.”

First fucking piece of good news I’ve heard this morning. Eventually Jack will leave or I’ll drive him away. Then I’ll be done with this and can get the hell out of here.

“Thinking about cutting out, are you?” Jack says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Sorry to disappoint you, but that would only see you back in jail. You’re on probation. Let me enlighten you of the terms of your probation. One: you are in my custody. You do what I say when I say. I report directly to the judge. You fuck up, I call the judge, he puts you in jail and you are facing three years there.”

Three years? My eyes widen.

“Now I’ve got your attention, don’t I?” Jack states confidently. “Consider us glued at the hip for the next six months. That’s the term of your probation. Finish it successfully and no jail time, all charges dropped. I gave my word to the judge to help you. You’re my responsibility. I take that seriously. I don’t break the law and I won’t lie for you. Are we clear?”

Fucker. “Crystal clear.”

“You’re feeling pretty good right now, but it’s not going to last. The doctor has been medicating you to keep you from full withdrawal. I wanted you clear-headed and focused enough so we could have a lucid conversation this morning. They gave you your last dose of methadone seven hours ago. But now you’re going to do a straight seventy-two-hour detox. Get the shit out of your system. And if you survive that, I’ll be back, and we can talk about what happens then.”

Jack Parker stands and leaves the room.

Three hours later, I’m not feeling so cocky. They are going to make me go fucking cold-turkey detox. The sweats have started. The pain. The shaking. It’s too much. I’m not fucking doing this, especially since I haven’t completely abandoned the notion of killing myself and once Jack left my memories of Molly became inescapable.

I search the hospital room. In a locker I find a bag. My clothes smell disgusting, but they are in here. Shit. No money. No cigarettes.

I go to the door and ease it back an inch. Hallway empty. The nurses check in every half hour or so. They’ve just left. I’m dressing and getting out of here.

It is surprisingly easily to escape a voluntary detox program. I was spotted going down the corridor. No one even tried to stop me. Then I’m into the elevator and out the front doors without incident and I’m free.

Now, standing on the pavement out front, I’m not sure what the hell to do. I haven’t got any money, I’m in a strange town, and I need a fucking wake-up shot. If I call anyone, they’ll send for Jack and this time I’m going straight to jail and not to a hospital bed. I don’t doubt Jack Parker when he says he won’t lie for me.

I hail a cab and climb into the backseat.

The driver hits the meter. “Where to?”

I stare out the window. “I don’t know. Just drive.”

The car doesn’t move. I can feel eyes staring at me from the rearview mirror.

“Jesus H Christ! Aren’t you—?”

Bingo, a fan.

“—Alan Manzone.”

I force my million-dollar rock star smile to my face. The one that is half snarl and half fuck me.

“I should tell you upfront,” I say. “I haven’t got any money, but I assure you someone will send it to you with a little something extra for the inconvenience. Just get me the fuck away from here. Now.”

The car starts to move. “No worries, man. I’m honored. Anything you want, you just ask me. No one knows Chicago like I do.”

I soften the curl on my lips. “A cigarette would be appreciated.”

A pack is eagerly tossed into the backseat to me. I take one from the box, light it, and inhale deeply. The nicotine feels good mixing in my blood but, fuck, it won’t do shit to stop the crawling on my skin. Much longer and I’m going to be vomiting.

“I’m looking for a party.” My gaze shifts to meet the driver’s in the rearview mirror. “A special kind of party. Do you understand?”

The cabbie looks over his shoulder at me. His expression changes. He gets it. He can see it on my face.

“Sure, man. I know a place. I’d be honored if you’d let me hook you up.”

He hits the turn signal and before long we’re in a seedy section of the city and I’m ready to fucking kill him.

Two hours later, we’re best friends.

A day later, I’m alone in a Chicago flat with a mountain of heroin, debating whether to check out on the land of the living again. I stare at the filthy squalor someone calls a home—whose fucking place is this?

I reach for the works on the table. Who cares if this is where I fucking end it? No one will remember me anyway. The only hope I had for anyone ever giving a damn about me long term—for anything other than sex, fame or money—was my daughter, Molly.

But that fucking cunt Jeanette let her die. Didn’t even call me to tell me my own daughter was ill. Let her die, buried her, and then came to my apartment in New York to make sure the checks would still come after she told me we’d lost Molly.

Fucking women. Every woman I have ever known has been a disappointment. Only interested in what they can get from me. I load up the syringe with enough to kill me. Fuck them all to hell…

A knock on the door stops me. I wait, hoping whoever is on the other side goes away. More fucking knocking and my temper explodes. It’s so loud I can’t hear myself think.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Fuck!

I drop a towel over the table in an attempt to hide what’s lying there and go the door. I open it an inch. It is shoved into my face.

“You don’t listen very well, do you?” Jackson Parker says scathingly, shutting and latching the door behind him. “Did you think I was fucking joking? If I can find you, so can the cops. But they are not going to have to look hard if I tell them where you are.”

I shove him away. “Fuck off.”

Jack’s intimidating blues eyes do a fast once-over of me. “Sit down.”

I don’t know why I obey. I do. I sink onto a chair.

Jack rips the towel from the table. “Thinking about killing yourself again, are you? Or do you just need something to take the edge off today?”

His expression is insulting.

He sits in the chair across from me. “Go ahead. Shoot up. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

I stare at him. I don’t know why. I can’t shoot up with him sitting there. What the fuck is that about?

“Why don’t you just go away?” I growl.

Jack nods. “I can do that. But I’m not into making fast decisions. So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to stay here.” He checks his watch. “Six hours. I’m going to talk. You can do whatever you want. Shoot up. Drink. Hell, have a woman suck you off if you can still get it up. You might want to make the most of our time together. It could be your last party for a long while. You either walk out this door with me back to detox or you go to jail with the cops I’m going to send for. But I’m not making you decide which for six hours.”

Oh fuck, I’m not staying here with him for six hours. I’m about to snatch my stash from the table and bolt through the door when he drops a picture next to my drugs.

“Look at it,” he snaps.

My gaze shifts. It’s a fucking teenage girl. She looks just like him and, damn, it makes me think about Molly and I don’t want to.

“That’s my little girl,” Jack says. “She’s alone during the holidays so I can be here trying to help your sorry ass. The least you can do is hear me out. I’ve been gone for a week. I’m asking for six hours. Sit the fuck down and listen.”