In under half an hour, I’ve caught up with Ivy. Which wasn’t exactly hard, considering she drives a hair below the speed limit, and I enjoy a comfortable cruise at twice the speed.
It's a route she takes often. The pharmacy. She goes there a lot. Her Aunt’s house. A candy bar and a fill-up at the local gas station if she’s feeling extra adventurous—all courtesy of the D’Angelo fuel card.
As soon as she leaves the pharmacy, I duck inside and head straight to the man in the white coat. “The woman who was just here. Tell me about the prescription she picked up.”
“Are you a relative?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I’m her husband.”
The pharmacist looks me up and down, skeptical as he raises a brow. “She wasn't wearing a wedding band.”
I flash a grin. “I’m going to ignore the fact that you were trolling my wife’s finger for a wedding ring.” He doesn’t move. I pull out two crisp hundred-dollar bills and slide them across the counter.
After looking around the store, he palms the cash. “Can I get the address and the last four digits of the phone number on file?”
Hmm. A trick question. Chances are Ivy isn’t picking up meds for herself. There were no meds in Hunter’s report, which means no records on her would exist. I recite Aunt Grace’s address and phone number from memory.
The pharmacist checks his computer and nods. He recites a name and dosage. The name means nothing, and I stare back blankly. “Heart medication,” he says, clarifying.
I consider how often Ivy’s dropped by. “Why has Ivy come by so often if there’s just the one medication?”
“To pay. She pays a little at a time.”
“How much does that cost?”
He punches a few buttons on his keyboard as he checks the computer. “For a full dose once a day? Fifty-five hundred dollars.”
“Every two weeks? What are they, laced with cocaine?”
He smirks. “Cocaine would probably be cheaper. It became an issue when her insurance ran out.”
“How does insurance run out?”
“In her case?” The pharmacist looks around, ensuring no one is in earshot. “I shouldn't be saying this, but Ms. Everly’s late husband used to work for Shelby Petroleum. Last year, the company declared bankruptcy. The news said all the employees got a one-time settlement, but their insurance dried up.”
I lose my cool. “Are you telling me that this woman is condemned to a life of figuring out how to pay to keep her heart fucking going?”
His shoulders lift warily. “She was. Until her niece showed up.”
Anger simmers below the surface, but I refrain from drawing my gun. “How do you sleep at night?”
“Xanax.” He’s joking. I deadpan. His hands raise in surrender. “Don’t look at me. Blame big pharma. And it doesn’t help that Gracie is allergic to everything but air.”
I fish out a credit card and hand it to him. He taps it, skeptically. “You sure you want to do that? Gracie’s doctor just upped her prescription to twice a day.”