Page 50 of I Will Ruin You

You’d think, she thought, drug smugglers would be a little more careful. What were they teaching criminals these days, anyway? She blamed the schools.

Lucy knew pretty much everyone at the hospital, and had an idea of the right people to discreetly approach. The truth was, the ones who were really hurting were the overworked staff. They’d all been through so much these last few years, what with the pandemic and all. Everybody was burned out, and many had never snapped back when COVID started to fade away. She did some quick online research and decided twenty bucks a pill was fair. If she could sell them all, that would be a cool four grand right there.

So fuck you, Billy, and the Camaro you rode in on.

She sold out in a couple of weeks. Had a few who came back for more, like that orderly Digby. Short, stocky dude, with short black hair, a kind of walking-talking fire hydrant with a fox tattoo on his shoulder. Always licking his lips. Reminded her of Heath Ledger when he played Joker in that Batman movie.

When Billy discovered her in the garage, she’d been hoping to restock, see if there was a bag in the locker that hadn’t been picked up. But when he found her it was game over. If more stuff went missing, he was going to know for sure it was her. Good thing that loose cupboard door gave her an excuse to be looking for a screwdriver.

Did Billy believe her? Lucy hoped so. It made sense to lay it on Stuart. He knew what Billy was doing. He knew where the shit was. Billy wasn’t cutting him in, so Stuart had a reason. Lucy was sorry she hadn’t saved a few Flizzies. She could have found a way to plant them on Stuart, someplace where Billy would find them.

The lunch rush was over, and Lucy was hosing down the huge serving dishes that, moments earlier, had held Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes, when Digby sidled up to her and whispered, “Is the store open?”

She whispered to him, “Store’s closed.”

Digby said, “When should I come back?”

“Never,” she said, setting the tray in the sink. “We’ve got one of those supply chain problems. Already had a going-out-of-business sale.”

“I didn’t get the flyer,” Digby said.

“Can’t do it anymore. It’s over. Done. Too much heat.” Sounding like some girl in a movie.

“Not what I want to hear,” he said, moving in close enough that his nose was nearly touching hers. She could feel his hot, fetid breath on her face. “I’m not interested in any supply chain bullshit. Your store needs to reopen.”

And he reached down between her legs and gave her a quick, hard squeeze before flashing a smile and finding his way out, Lucy quivering like the green leftover Jell-O she’d pitched earlier.

Twenty-Two

Richard

Bonnie went alone to the hospital Saturday night. I would have accompanied her, but Rachel couldn’t be left on her own, and it was, after all, Bonnie’s sister. She promised to text updates on Marta’s condition as they became available.

What I learned, over the next few hours, was that Marta had been doing a one-woman stakeout trying to get a lead on who might have sold fentanyl to the mother of Bonnie’s student who had overdosed. Someone had hit her in the head as she stood by her car and she’d briefly lost consciousness. A couple coming out of Jim’s, the bar Marta had been keeping an eye on, saw her and called 911. Marta was awake by the time the ambulance arrived, and tried without success to talk them out of taking her to the hospital.

Good thing, too.

She was diagnosed with a mild concussion. A doctor conducted several neurological tests and to be on the safe side Marta was kept until they could do a CT scan much later that evening. Bonnie had stayed at the hospital with Ginny, who was, according to Bonnie, a complete wreck, until the results of the scan were available, which was well after midnight. The scan did not show anything alarming, but the ER staff decided it would be best to keep Marta there at least until the morning.

I tried to stay awake until Bonnie got home, waiting up for her in the living room, but when she came through the door shortly before two, I was out cold in the recliner. The sound of her entry woke me. We had a brief chat, and then we both went to bed. If she was still angry about my selling the boat to Jack, she was too tired to show it.

Around nine Sunday morning, Bonnie texted Ginny for news. Marta was to be discharged around eleven, and had asked Ginny to bring her a pair of shoes. The ones she’d been wearing when she was assaulted had been stolen right off her feet.

Bonnie said she would drop by later. When she went, Rachel and I joined her, stopping along the way to buy flowers and pick up some chocolate croissants from Marta’s favorite bakery.

She was sitting on their front porch, feet up, sipping on some lemonade and reading a Scott Turow novel when we pulled into the driveway. Marta didn’t much want to talk about what had happened to her, at least not in front of all of us. Rachel and I spent some time in the kitchen with Ginny so that the sisters could talk privately. And when Rachel mentioned her newfound interest, Ginny offered to take her on a tour of their backyard garden to see what specimens they might be able to find.

That left me alone for a few minutes in the kitchen, affording me time to ponder my current predicament, not that I wasn’t already thinking about it all the time. I got out my phone, considered searching “hit men for hire,” but instead killed time looking at all the unused apps I had and deleting them. Did I really need to know the value of the Swedish krona against the U.S. dollar? Delete. When was the last time I turned on white noise when trying to get to sleep? Delete.

And then I saw Voice Memos.

I’d never used that recording app, wasn’t even really aware it had been on my phone all this time, so there seemed little sense in hanging on to it. But in that moment, it struck me as worth hanging on to. That maybe it might come in handy.

Ginny came rushing in without Rachel, opened a cabinet door below the sink, and was searching through a blue bin of recycled items. She came up with an empty glass jar with a spaghetti sauce label on it, metal lid still screwed on top. With a bottle opener, she made a couple of very small holes in the top, then looked at me and smirked.

“I’m not even going to ask,” I said.

I went out to the front porch and found Bonnie and Marta wrapping up their chat. “If there’s anything you need,” Bonnie said, “you let me know.”