Chapter 2 - The Drug That Wasn’t on Her Chart
At eight the next morning, I was standing at the pharmacy window in Portland with the tiny vial inside a zip bag and my stomach in knots.
The pharmacist was a tired-looking woman in her fifties named Denise who knew me by sight because I had spent six years filling Bree’s prescriptions there. When I asked whether she could identify the medication from the printed lot code, her face changed.
“This wasn’t dispensed through us,” she said.
“What is it?”
She looked again, then lowered her voice. “Lorazepam injectable.”
I stared at her.
“We don’t have an order for that under Bree’s name,” she continued. “Not current, not recent. And it’s not something a home caregiver should be improvising with.”
By the time I got back home, I had already pulled up Bree’s digital care chart.
Feeding schedule. Skin care. Med pass. Vitals. Position changes.
No lorazepam.
No “supplement.”
Nothing.
At 9:05, Mrs. Powell arrived in her peppermint-tea perfume and practical shoes like it was a normal Wednesday.
I met her at the door with the chart printout and the empty vial.
She went white before I even spoke.
“What is this?” I asked.
She gripped her tote bag with both hands. “Matthew…”
“No. Don’t start with my name. Start with the truth.”
Her eyes moved toward Bree’s room and then back to me. “Celia said it would help her rest.”
“Celia is not a physician.”
“She said Dr. Abrams knew.”
“Then why isn’t it in the chart?”
That was when her composure cracked. Not all at once. Just enough for me to see that whatever had been going on, she had been carrying it badly.
“She was getting restless at night,” Mrs. Powell whispered. “Her heart rate would spike. Her breathing would change. Celia said Bree was suffering.”
“And you believed her?”
For a long moment, Mrs. Powell said nothing.
Then she did something I hadn’t expected.
She started crying.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have stopped this months ago.”
Months.
The word hit me harder than if she had slapped me.
I told her to sit down at the kitchen table and explain everything. Instead, she reached into her tote, pulled out her key ring, and set my house key in front of me.
“I can’t stay,” she whispered. “But if you want the truth, check the cedar chest in Bree’s closet. The false bottom.”
She stood before I could stop her.
At the door, she turned once.
“I never wanted to hurt her. But someone already did.”
Then she left.
I went straight to Bree’s room, opened the closet, and knelt in front of the old cedar chest her grandmother had given us as a wedding present.
The false bottom lifted on the second try.
Inside were three things:
a spiral notebook,
a flash drive,
May you like
and an envelope with my name written across the front in Bree’s handwriting.
My hands started trembling before I even opened it.
