Chapter 33 Questions with Thorns
Violet
By the time five-thirty hits, my head feels like it’s been packed with cotton.
I finish what I’m doing because that’s what I do. I close tabs. I reroute the last call. I straighten the desk that never seems to stay straight no matter how often I fix it.
When I stand, Camille looks up immediately.
“You okay?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
“I need to go back to the rehab center,” I say.
She doesn’t question it. She just grabs her bag and keys. “Let’s go.”
The drive is quiet. Not awkward—just heavy. The city blurs past the windows, streetlights flickering on one by one. I keep expecting my chest to tighten, my hands to shake.
They don’t.
I don’t know if that’s strength or numbness anymore.
The rehab center looks the same as it did last night—low building, pale brick, windows glowing soft and yellow. It smells like antiseptic and old coffee when we walk in.
The nurse at the desk smiles when she sees me. “You’re back.”
“Yes,” I say. “Is she…?”
“She’s calm today,” the nurse says gently. “Very lucid.”
That stops me.
Camille squeezes my arm. “That’s good.”
It feels like it should be.
My mother is sitting upright when we walk in, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her hair is brushed. She looks smaller than I remember—but clearer.
She looks at me and smiles.
“Violet,” she says.
My throat tightens instantly.
“Hi, Mom.”
She reaches out, and I take her hand. It’s warm. Steady.
“You look tired,” she says.
I almost laugh. “You too.”
She hums softly, squeezing my fingers. “Do you remember that summer Evan tried to fix the fence?”
Camille shifts quietly toward the wall, giving us space.
I nod. “The fence he made worse?”
My mother chuckles—a real laugh. “He thought nails were optional.”
“And then he hit the water pipe,” I add.
Her eyes light up. “Flooded the yard. Your father was furious.”
“I grabbed towels and started redirecting the water like it was a military operation,” I say. “You told Evan to hold the flashlight and stop panicking.”
She smiles at the memory. “You always cleaned up his messes.”
I swallow hard.
“He never meant to cause trouble,” she says softly. “He just… rushed into things.”
“I know,” I whisper.
For a few minutes, it feels like I’ve stepped back into something familiar—my mother’s voice steady, her eyes clear, her hand warm in mine. We talk about Evan like he’s just late, like he’s still part of the world in a way that doesn’t hurt to say out loud.
Then I ask one question too many.
“There was a man,” she says again, quieter this time.
I stiffen. Camille does too.
“A man?” I repeat, careful, slow. “Mom, what man?”
Her fingers curl around mine, nails digging in. “He came here. Asked questions.”
“When?” Camille asks gently.
My mother’s breathing changes. Faster. Uneven.
“He said he worked at the docks,” she snaps. “You know what that means.”
I don’t. But the way she says it—like it’s a warning, like it’s something she’s been holding onto—makes my stomach drop.
“What did he want?” I ask.
Her eyes flick toward the door. Then back to me. “He wanted Evan. Wanted to know where he was. Said he didn’t like being kept waiting.”
Camille shifts closer. “Did he give a name?”
My mother shakes her head sharply. “No. Just said men like him don’t ask twice.”
My heart starts pounding.
“This was after I reported Evan missing,” I say quietly.
“Yes,” she says. “After you came crying. After everyone started asking questions.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I whisper.
Her grip tightens suddenly. Too tight.
“He told me not to worry,” she continues, voice rising. “Said Evan was busy. Said he’d come by soon.”
I swallow hard. “Did he?”
Her face twists.
“You think I don’t know what’s happening?” she snaps. “You think I’m stupid?”
“No—Mom, that’s not—”
“You always think you know better!” she yells, yanking her hand free. “You always cleaned up his messes. Always acted like you were in charge.”
Camille steps in. “Ma’am, it’s okay—”
“Don’t touch me!” my mother screams.
She grabs the plastic cup from her bedside table and throws it.
It misses my head by inches and shatters against the wall.
Camille gasps. “Okay—okay, we’re stepping back.”
Another object flies. A tissue box this time.
I stand up, heart racing. “Mom, please—”
“Get out!” she screams. “Go find him! Go fix it like you always do!”
A nurse rushes in as the alarm sounds.
“That’s enough,” the nurse says firmly, already signaling for backup. “She’s escalating.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “We didn’t mean to—”
“Ms. Pierce,” the nurse says gently but urgently, “you need to step out.”
Camille pulls me back as another nurse moves to sedate my mother. I don’t fight it. I don’t argue.
I just watch.
As the medication takes hold, my mother’s voice fades into sobs, then murmurs, then nothing.
The door closes softly behind us.
I lean against the wall, shaking.
Camille puts a hand on my back. “You okay?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She nods. “Me neither.”
We stand there for a moment, the hallway quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights and distant footsteps.
Then I straighten.
“There was a man,” I say. “He came here.”
Camille’s jaw tightens. “Then there’s a record.”
We walk back to the nurse’s station.
A different nurse is there now, older, tired eyes. She looks up as we approach.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“I’m trying to find information about a visitor,” I say. “Someone who came to see my mother about a month ago. He said he worked with her son at the docks.”
The nurse hesitates.
“Is everything alright?” she asks carefully.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But my brother is dead. And I think this matters.”
That does it.
The nurse exhales slowly. “Let me think.”
She taps her pen against the counter.
“There was a man,” she says finally. “Didn’t sign in properly. Smelled like mildew.”
My blood goes cold.
“Mildew?” Camille repeats.
The nurse nods. “Like damp clothes. Old water. Hard to miss.”
“When did he come?” I ask.
“A few weeks after your brother stopped showing up,” she says. “Asked a lot of questions. Made me uncomfortable.”
“Did you report it?” Camille asks.
“Yes,” the nurse says. “I told that detective guy. The tall one. Calder.”
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
“You told Detective Calder?” I whisper.
She nods. “He said he’d handle it.”
I look at Camille.
Camille looks at me.
Nothing about this feels right.
“Do you have a sign-in sheet?” Camille asks. “Or security footage?”
The nurse hesitates again. “We might. But I’d have to check with administration.”
“Please,” I say. “This could be important.”
She studies my face for a long moment, then nods. “I’ll see what I can find.”
As she walks away, a knot tightens in my stomach.
Because if this man came here—
If he asked about Evan after I reported him missing—
And if Calder knew—
Then this wasn’t just negligence.
It was something else entirely.