“Were you smoking?”
To his right was a second nightstand. It lay on its side, tumbled over, perhaps accidentally bumped into during my surprise visit and Tacoma’s hurried action to put his Marlboro out.
He couldn’t lie regarding my question, caught. He wouldn’tlie, if he was smart.
“I couldn’t help it. It’s a terrible habit.”
I frowned with displeasure. “You broke a house rule.”
He sighed, looking helpless and abashed. “I’m sorry. I’m addicted to cigarettes. I should have told you.”
“You’ve disappointed me, Tacoma. You should have gone outside to smoke. You know the rule. There are so few rules. How could you have done this?”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Do you have a stash in here? Where are your cigarettes? Where do you keep them?” I didn’t step inside his room, but I did look to my left and right, searching for a pack or cartons of his cancer sticks, unpleased with his behavior and dishonesty.