For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
Then Victor suddenly doubled over, groaning in pain.
I rushed toward the nightstand and reached for the bottle of liquid morphine prescribed for breakthrough pain.
His weak hand caught my wrist with surprising strength.
“Don’t give me that.”
“Victor, you’re in severe pain. You need this.”
Tears gathered in his sunken eyes.
“It’s not medicine anymore, Maya.”
I looked down at the bottle.
“What do you mean?”
He struggled for breath.
“Evelyn poured out what was left three days ago. She filled it back up with tap water.”
The room seemed to tilt beneath me.
“Why… why would she do that?!”
Several seconds passed before Victor answered.
“She said the real refills were too expensive for someone who was going to die anyway.”
I carefully set the bottle down.
Not on the nightstand.
Away from everything else.
I handled it the way I would handle evidence.
