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FLICKING ON THE overhead light, I stood at the side of the bed and stared down at Lisa’s satchel. Anger welled in my chest as I rummaged through the compartments. Her checkbook and credit cards were all there, along with her phone. Digging through the rest of the bag, I found the usual suspects: business cards, a hairbrush, mascara, lip gloss, tissues, and a tin of mints. Frustrated, I dumped the purse upside down on the bedspread. When I did, the cover on the mints flipped open, spilling its contents.
Funny looking mints.
Squinting, I stared at the imprint on the side of the pills. 6767. The number wasn’t familiar. My anger at Ian’s lie at a full burn, I gathered the five tablets in my hand and shoved the rest of Lisa’s things back inside the satchel before carrying everything into the living room. Ian was in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee. Blood pounded in my ears. I dropped the bag onto the coffee table.
Take it easy, Kate. Ian might have a good explanation.
But then again...
“Why did you lie to me?” My voice serrated the air in the quiet apartment.
Ian turned around with a puzzled look on his face. His gaze dropped to the purse, and he opened his mouth to respond. Then his eyes moved to my open hand. He clamped his lips shut.
“Where did she get these?” I held out the pills. My hand shook. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself.
“I’m not sure. I—I didn’t lie to you.” Ian set down the bag of coffee he was holding. “Isn’t that Lisa’s purse?”
“You know damn well it is.” My anger spiked. I hated lies. There’d been too many in my life, including mine. “Why did you tell me you didn’t know where it was?”
“Because I didn’t.” Ian frowned and stepped toward me. “Where did you find it?”
“In one of the bedrooms.”
“Which one?”
“The first one on the right.”
Ian’s frown cleared and he said, “That’s the guest room. I hardly ever go in there.” He shrugged. “Maybe she left it when she went to the party.”
Although leaving her purse anywhere didn’t sound like Lisa, my conviction that Ian had known about the purse lessened slightly and I backed off. He could have been telling the truth. She might have left it, preferring to just keep her identification with her rather than being a target for a mugging. But that didn’t explain what I’d found in the tin.
“What are those?” He nodded at the pills in my hand.
“I’m not sure. I thought you’d be able to tell me.”
Some kind of emotion flashed across Ian’s face that I couldn’t read. My fingers curled around the pills, and I slid them into my pocket.
“Do you think they might be what put Lisa in a coma?” Ian’s frown was back again. This time I caught the emotion that flickered in his eyes. It was fear. Alarm bells went off in my head as I studied him closely. Little beads of perspiration had formed on his upper lip and his breathing was faster than normal.
Not exactly relaxed.
“Okay.” I crossed my arms. “This is how it’s going to work. You’re going to tell me again how her purse ended up in your guest bedroom, and then you’re going to tell me where these pills came from.”
“But I told you—”
I cut him off. “Stop. Just stop. You’re a bad liar.” I sighed. “Please, just tell me the truth.”
Ian crossed his arms, matching my stance. “I am telling you the truth. That room is my guest bedroom. I hardly ever use it.” He waved at the open living room and kitchen. “As you can see, my laptop is out here on the kitchen table, so obviously I don’t use the room as an office.” He narrowed his eyes. “And why were you snooping around my apartment? It’s not like you can see the bed from the hallway.” He took a step forward.
“How did you know the purse was on the bed?”
Ian froze. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.
“I didn’t know.” His voice was so soft I barely heard him.
Cold dread gripped me. “Didn’t know what? About her purse being on the bed or something else?”
Ian opened his eyes and blinked back tears.
“I was too late. He was supposed to be there.” His voice cracking, Ian collapsed into a nearby chair.
“He?”
Ian nodded, misery plain on his face. “Momo. The guy I get my painkillers from.”
I stepped closer. “This Momo is a friend of yours?”
Ian shook his head. “No—yes, I mean, kind of. He’s a customer. Hangs out at the wine bar where I work. About a year ago, I mentioned I had lower back pain and that I had to wait another month before my doctor would prescribe any more painkillers. He told me he could hook me up—made it sound like he did runs into Canada for cheap meds. I’ve been using his stuff for months. Nothing like this has ever happened.”
“And?”
“Lisa ran out of oxy, and she asked me if I had anything to take care of the pain.”
I finished the sentence. “And you sent her to the party to buy some.”
A sob escaped him and he buried his face in his hands. “Oh, God. I did. I’m the one, and now she’s—”
“Why didn’t you give her some from the bottle in the medicine cabinet?”
He shook his head as he wiped at his eyes. “I was low on oxy and didn’t want to give any away, so I told her to meet me at this party and I’d help her buy from Momo.”
“Only she didn’t wait.”
Ian shook his head. “I got there as the paramedics were rolling her out on a gurney.” He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “I took her purse in case she’d already scored, and followed them to the hospital.”
“That’s bleak, Ian.” When he didn’t respond, I added, “I’m going to need Momo’s contact information.”
Ian nodded again, his gaze unfocused. He recited the number from memory.
Swallowing a retort about memorizing his drug dealer’s number, I plugged the information into my phone. “Have you ever thought about quitting? Because, you know, you might have a teensy problem.”
His eyes met mine. Misery and pain gazed out at me from their depths. I didn’t have to do anything to make him understand the magnitude of what he’d done. He was already there.
My compassion was in short supply that morning. Lisa was in a coma because she trusted Ian, and Ian had let her down. Fresh anger boiled in my chest as I grabbed Lisa’s purse and walked to the door. All of this could have been avoided if Ian had been honest about his oxy supply, and if Lisa would have been honest with me about her addiction to painkillers. But I supposed that was the nature of addiction. Honesty rarely enters into things.
I opened the door and left.
***
When I arrived back home, I cleaned the house. Which told me I was avoiding something, since I hate to clean.
I started with the bedrooms, worked my way to the living room, and was scouring the toilets when it hit me. I hadn’t called my family back in Minnesota to let them know what happened to Lisa. My dad and his wife, Maureen, had made reservations to fly out to visit Lisa and me, and were due in a few weeks.
The thought of telling them that Lisa was clinging to life by a thread made me clean like the possessed. They’d blame me, of course.
The black sheep of the family, I was the brunt of my stepmother and two older sisters’ no-holds-barred judgment. I was the one who had left my safe, successful little life in the Midwest for a last hurrah in Mexico and fallen for a drug lord. It didn’t matter that in the beginning I had no idea what Roberto Salazar did for a living, or that when I did find out I chose the only path of escape available. That much was clear when I asked for help and none came. Every time I called them, they harangued me for my poor choices, as if they alone were the moral equivalent of judge and jury. According to them, the mere fact that I wanted more out of life than what they deemed an appropriate path, a.k.a. marriage, family, career, and a safe life in the suburbs, threw suspicion on any choices I made.
The house clean, I’d run out of obstacles to the dreaded phone call. Maybe I’d be lucky and my father would answer. Holding on to that flimsy hope, I grabbed my cell and hit speed dial.
“Hello?”
My heart squeezed at my stepmother’s crisp, efficient voice. I took a deep breath.
“Hey, Maureen—it’s Kate.”
“Kate, dear. How nice to hear from you. Hold on and let me get your father. I’m sure he’ll want to speak to you.”
As I waited, I imagined Maureen wearing the proper attire with just the right amount of makeup, recently manicured nails in an acceptable color, not too outrageous of course, and her hair smartly coiffed in some new but not too trendy style for whatever function was being held that afternoon at the country club. Her heels would be comfortable, yet stylish, and would click smartly along the hardwood floors of my parents’ home. Later, despite her perfect attire, she’d joke with her country club sisters about how she desperately needed a shopping trip to New York.
On the other hand, my father, George, was content puttering in his workshop in the backyard, inventing new ways to make life easier for Maureen, or reading a good book in his hammock, strung between two old oak trees. He’d be wearing his favorite cardigan, patched wherever holes had formed—the one my stepmother ceaselessly nagged him about, telling him that it was time to retire the old thing. I loved that he ignored her and wore it anyway.
His own little mutiny.
“What’s up, love bug?”
The warmth in my father’s voice as he called me his pet name melted my heart, and I instantly regretted thinking uncharitable thoughts about my stepmother. “Minnesota nice,” or the instinct to be polite no matter what, is tough to overcome. Just ask anyone from the Midwest.
“There’s been an accident.”
I flinched at Maureen’s sharp intake of breath. Apparently, she’d remained on the line when my father got on.
“Is everything all right?” The concern in my father’s voice counteracted the tirade I knew would come from Maureen as soon as I explained.
Clearing my throat, I said, “Lisa had a bad reaction to a painkiller. She’s in a coma.”
“What?” My stepmother’s tone ratcheted up, and I held the phone away from my ear. “What do you mean, Lisa’s in a coma?” Her voice dripped disbelief mixed with accusation.
“She had a bad reaction to a painkiller,” I repeated. I took another deep breath and let it go. You just have to get through the initial shock, Kate. Things will settle down after that.
“How did it happen?”
“She ran out of painkillers the doctor prescribed for her migraines, and instead of going back to ask for a refill, she decided to take someone else’s medication.” I wasn’t about to tell her the “someone else” was Ian’s drug dealer. Maureen would somehow link Ian’s behavior with my past—the information would only give my stepmother more ammunition in her War Against Kate.
“What’s the prognosis?” My father’s calm, rational tone had a soothing effect.
“Her vitals are stable and there’s brain activity, but she’s unresponsive.”
“When did this happen?”
“Late last night.”
“And you didn’t think to notify us until now?” The indignation in Maureen’s voice set my teeth on edge. “Isn’t that just like you, Kate? Only thinking of yourself.”
“Now, Maureen. Don’t be so hard on her. It can’t have been easy for her to call with such bad news.”
Maureen huffed. “I assume you haven’t told your sisters yet?”
“They were next on my list,” I lied. I figured Maureen would want to call them so that she could whip them into an indignant froth and the three of them could partake in some juicy Kate-bashing.
“As soon as we end this call, I’m going to change our reservations.” Maureen’s tone brooked no argument. “We’ll fly out tomorrow instead of our original date.”
“There’s not much you can do for her at the moment, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I think there is. I’m sure you haven’t vetted her doctors properly. There’s an art to dealing with medical personnel. But then you probably wouldn’t know that, what with your sordid past consorting with drug dealers and thieves.”
“Maureen.” My father’s tone held a warning.
“What? I’m just being truthful.”
“Can you get a cab at the airport?” I asked, changing the subject. “Sam has to use the Tahoe for a case,” I lied. Again. “I could pick you up, but the Jeep is a little small for your luggage.” Maureen never traveled light. I pitied the poor taxi driver who ended up driving my parents to their hotel.
“Don’t you worry about it, love bug. We’ll manage.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to stay at Sam’s and my place?” Not that I wanted Maureen under my roof, but Minnesota nice was interfering once again.
I’d have to work on that.
“Why on earth would we want to stay with you and be party to your...illicit relationship?”
My father sighed and I almost laughed. It wasn’t like George and Maureen had waited to consummate their love until they were married.
Hypocrites tended to rub me the wrong way. Before uttering something I’d regret, I said, “Why don’t you two plan on coming to the house for an early dinner tomorrow night? We can head over to the hospital afterward to see Lisa.”
“That sounds fine.” My father added, “Doesn’t it, Maureen?”
“If that’s what you both want. But I insist on bringing the wine. I doubt you have anything even remotely acceptable in your wine cellar.”
I almost told her we didn’t have a wine cellar, but that would have only baited her into haranguing me about all the mistakes I’d made in my life, the worst of which would be not having developed a discerning palate. Instead, I said, “That would be perfect, Maureen. Give me a call when you get settled.”
We ended the call and I closed my eyes.
That went well.