Deception (Infidelity #3)(86)

Dr. Beck’s head moved back and forth. “Adelaide, I’ve prescribed over two months’ worth of Vicodin in the last thirty days. I understand that things can be misplaced, but this is getting out of hand.”

“Yes, I know. I haven’t taken it. I don’t need you to give me more. I need Jane to bring me the medicine I have.”

“Why would Jane have your medicine?”

“Because… she takes care of me.” I straightened my shoulders. “It’s her job. Now tell me why you’re here.”

“I was called and asked to come,” he said again. “I was told you needed more medicine. That you weren’t waking and with Mr. Fitzgerald out of town, your people were concerned.”

Out of town? He hadn’t said he was going out of town.

I should call Stephen and see if he’s learned any more. I could call Alexandria and go to New York. The thoughts came and went… fleeting moments of cognitive comprehension. I turned to Dr. Beck. “What time is it?”

Dr. Beck looked down at his watch. “It’s nearly four.”

My eyes opened wide, only to have them close again. Inhale. Exhale. “In the afternoon? No. It can’t be four. I have a luncheon at the museum.”

Dr. Beck’s hand covered mine. “How many Vicodin have you taken?”

“I haven’t taken any. I haven’t needed them. Not since you prescribed the daily medication. Well, not since it started working. This is the first migraine in months, maybe longer.”

“Yet you called the office yourself for more Vicodin only a few weeks ago.”

I let out a long breath. “For situations like this. To have it on hand.” I shook my head. “Doctor, how did this happen? I-I don’t recall last night.”

“What do you mean you don’t recall?”

“There are gaps, like blackouts.”

“I’ve spoken to you about the side effects of narcotics and alcohol.”

“But I haven’t taken the narcotics. And…” I spoke louder than I intended, “…my alcohol intake is down.”

Dr. Beck looked down at my hand under his. “Adelaide, you’re still shaking. I was told you haven’t eaten. You need to eat.”

The confusion and fog added to my unease. “One Vicodin, please, Dr. Beck. I know you have one. You never come to see me without it.”

Dr. Beck opened the bag he’d placed on the floor near his chair. “You haven’t taken any today?”

“I just woke. I don’t understand what’s happening.”

He pulled an amber bottle from the bag. The sight was like showing a cookie jar to a toddler. My heart rate increased in anticipation. Dr. Beck turned the childproof cap and sprinkled a palm full of white oblong tablets into his hand.

My mouth watered as I raked my bottom lip between my teeth and swallowed. Those were 5-milligram tablets. I’d recognize them anywhere.

“Doctor, those are only fives. I need two.”

Begrudgingly, he pinched two from his hand and poured the rest back into the bottle. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

I pointed toward the highboy across the room. “There’s water over there.”

Dr. Beck held the pills captive as he went to the highboy, no doubt assessing the bottles of alcohol. It was, after all, the place where as of late Alton had decided to prepare his evening cocktails. After filling a glass with water from a bottle, he lifted a re-corked bottle of Montague Private Collection. “Have you had any of this today?”

“No. I just woke.” Exasperation and desperation were evident in my voice.

He returned and handed me the glass of water. I took a sip and then held out my hand for the capsules.

“Adelaide, I think I should run some tests. The memory loss. The sleeping all day. This isn’t like you.”

The fingers of my hand opened and closed in a silent plea for the pills. After a moment of hesitation, he placed the capsules in my palm. Before I could place them in my mouth, he held my clenched fist.

“Come to my office tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a request. It didn’t matter though. At that moment I’d agree to anything. It could have been the devil himself—I knew him intimately. I would have said yes no matter what the request or command as long as I got the pills.

“Yes.”





I SENT CHELSEA another text message. It was my daily routine: each morning before class and each afternoon on my way home. I was beginning to wonder if she’d changed her number. That was the thing with text messages: the sender had no way of knowing if the recipient actually received the message. It wasn’t like email that would bounce back a non-receivable message. And it had.

Chelsea’s email address, the one she’d had the entire time we were in California, was no longer active.

I scrolled back through my text messages. It had been over three weeks. Not only couldn’t I reach Chelsea, but I also couldn’t reach her mother. All of my calls to Tina Moore had gone straight to voicemail where her mailbox was full. In desperation, I looked her mother up on the Internet. I didn’t know why she wasn’t answering my cell phone calls, but maybe she still had a house phone.

My heart leapt with a flicker of hope when I found a number.

With Clayton driving me back to the apartment, I programmed her number and called.