I’d snagged the piece of paper my father left behind in the wake of his monumental visit that Scott had laid quietly on the counter. I’d shoved it into my pocket—resolving to shred it as soon as I could. Yet all the while knowing I wasn’t likely to. Scott’s shock at my vehemence had given me pause but, in the end, I knew I’d done the right thing by sending the bastard on his way.
If he’d been a good man—a good father and husband—before the crash, then maybe I would’ve been understanding. And I’d studied the effects of addiction. Had tried to be empathetic when working with addicts.
To my everlasting shame, I’d failed.
Patricia Peterson.
Patricia PetersonOscar Collins and Dr. Hugh Bracken maintained that if I hadn’t ridden her so hard, she never would’ve started using again. And if she
