“I hate doctors,” he said, frowning. “I still don’t see why we need to do this. So what if I’m forgetting things? Hate to break it to you, but that’s what happens when you get old.”
“Humor me,” I said tightly. “Maybe there’s a medicine that will help.”
He snorted, shaking his head, but he shoved the rest of his toast in his mouth and then left the kitchen to get his meds.
• • •
The forms were more complicated than I’d realized.
We started working on them at eight thirty, and an hour later we still weren’t finished. In addition to the basic history, there’d been a behavioral questionnaire for me to fill out, and one for him to fill out, too. Now we were down to listing his prescriptions, thank God.
“What’s this for?” I asked, holding up a bottle.
“Blood pressure,” he said. I wrote it down and then reached for another, feeling vaguely guilty that I hadn’t gone through these before. He’d always been such a private person about his health, though.
That and you were in denial, my common sense pointed out.
Yeah, you got me on that one.
“Be right back,” Dad said. “Need some water.”
“Sounds good—grab a glass for me, too,” I murmured, reaching for the last bottle. Amitriptyline. I wrote down the name, then rotated it to see the dosage. My mother’s name stared up at me accusingly.
Huh.
I thought I’d cleared all her stuff out. Weird. I started to set it down, then noticed something very strange. The date was from just last month.
What the hell?
“Dad!” I shouted.
“Yeah?”
“C’mere. I found this bottle and it doesn’t make any sense.”
He ambled back into the dining room, setting a glass down in front of me. I held out the little bottle to him, and he frowned.
“Don’t worry about that one. That’s your mother’s.”
“It’s dated from last month,” I said. “If it’s Mom’s, why are you getting refills? And I don’t recognize the pharmacy name, either.”
He sighed, then shook his head. “It’s embarrassing, Tinker Bell.”
“Dad, I’m your daughter—I love you. You never have to be embarrassed in front of me, because we’re in this together, okay? But I really need to know what’s going on here. It could be important.”
He sighed heavily and sat down.“It’s hard to admit,” he said. “But your mother . . . well, she was having a rough time that last year. And then when the baby died . . .”
The knife twisted inside just like it always did. Would it ever stop hurting? But I guess in a weird way that would be almost worse—I never wanted to forget Tricia. The pain reminded me that she’d been real. She’d been loved.
“Your mom got depressed, sweetie,” he said. “Real depressed. Enough that she needed some medicine, and you know how this town is. She didn’t want anyone to know. So she started looking online and found this pharmacy . . . they put her in touch with a doctor somewhere, and he did an exam over the phone. We paid cash for everything, of course, didn’t want it going through the insurance.”
I frowned. “Okay, that explains the medicine, but why was it filled last month?”
Dad looked away, then swallowed.
“I got real depressed myself after we lost your mom,” he said. “So I started taking them. They worked pretty good, so I kept ordering more. Sounds stupid now that I say it out loud, but . . . I’m a man. We aren’t supposed to be weak like this.”
Of course he’d feel that way.
Reaching over, I gave his hand a squeeze.
“It’s okay, Daddy,” I said, hoping he believed me. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met, and being depressed doesn’t change that. But I think we should talk to the doctor about it, get you a legitimate scrip. We can still fill it online so nobody sees it, okay?”
Dad gave me a sad smile, shaking his head. “I’m an old fool. Too proud, I guess.”
“Well, Mom liked you,” I pointed out. “And she had damned high standards. That’s got to count for something. We’re almost done here. I texted Randi. She’s supposed to get here in about ten minutes. I’ll just get this scanned and sent to them, and we’ll call it good.”
• • •
Naturally, the papers got stuck in the scanner.
Piece of shit.
I glared at it, wondering if I could make it work by sheer force of will. Fishing out the jammed paper, I set it up again, hoping it would work this time. I glanced at my phone nervously. At this rate I’d never get everything ready for my deliveries tomorrow. Crap.
And where the hell was Randi, anyway?
The papers started sliding through, so I decided to grab another coffee on general principle. I’d just poured the last of the tepid liquid into my mug and thrust it into the microwave when I heard a knocking on the back door. Wiping my hands off on a kitchen towel, I walked through the pantry-slash-mudroom to the back door, opening it to find Sadie standing outside.
“Hi, Sadie,” I said hesitantly, trying not to stare at the livid bruises on her face. Were those fingermarks around her neck? I needed to report this, whether she wanted me to or not. It was so much worse than I’d realized the other night—it’d been dark, or maybe they’d gotten worse with time. Bruises did that sometimes. I’d had no idea.
No wonder I hadn’t seen her around. She’d been hiding this.
“Hey,” she said, eyes darting nervously as she licked chapped lips. “Um, I wanted to tell you thanks. You know, for the other night. I just . . . well, I wanted you to know that I’m not going back. I’m done with that.”
“I’m really glad to hear it,” I replied slowly. Invite her in, dumbass. “Would you like some coffee? I was just about to put on a fresh pot.”
“No, that’s okay. But there’s one other thing I need to tell you,” she said, twisting a scraggly strand of hair.
“Yes?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t spook. The girl looked skittish as hell.
“Talia Jackson. She told us that she’s got something planned. Something big. Something to make all of you pay. You know, for Marsh?”
I felt a sinking in the pit of my stomach.