Page 65 of Not a Word

Evelyn came up the walk, stopped in front of him, let out a long breath, as though she had run here instead of driven, and said, “I need to know if I can trust you.”

“About what?”

“It’s a simple question. Can I trust you?”

“Yes, of course.”

He led her into the house, through the living room and into the kitchen, where he offered a drink. She looked at his glass and said, “I’ll have one of those, but make it a double.”

Brent handed her a tumblerful and, pointing out that his sons had just gone upstairs and might still be trying to settle down, suggested they go sit on the back deck. The sun had set, so he flipped on a couple of outdoor lights, slid back the screen of the sliding glass doors that were already pulled open, and followed her outside.

Before sitting in one of the cushioned chairs she admired the reflection of the lights in the pond.

“Your own private lake,” she said.

“Yeah, well, not quite big enough to water-ski. That little rowboat’s for the boys.”

They sat. Evelyn laid the case across her knees and patted it with one hand.

“It’s all here,” she said.

“What’s all there?”

“They’re killing people and they know they’re killing people and they don’t care.”

Brent sighed. “Evelyn, you know the media’s on a witch hunt with Wiffel-Smith. Printing bullshit stories quoting anonymous sources and no evidence. Why don’t they go after Budweiser for giving people beer bellies. When used responsibly to treat pain it—”

“Stop. Just, stop, Brent. Look who you’re talking to. I know the spiel. I know the company line. You don’t believe it any more than I do. I’ve seen the look on your face.”

“What look?”

“In the meetings. The others in that room, they’re brainwashed. They’re in the cult. But I look at you and I can see what you’re thinking. That it’s all a crock. Those cooked-up studies saying if the patient’s pain returns, up the dosage. Pop another pill. And if that doesn’t work, pop another one. It’s crack, this stuff. You know it, I know it. The assholes running the show know it.”

“I don’t know what you want from me, Evelyn. Maybe . . .” His voice trailed off and he looked out into the night, into the woods beyond the pond. “Look, maybe there are times when I have my doubts. But . . .”

“But you don’t want to give up this,” she said, tilting her head back toward the house. “The big house, the cars, the vacations, probably private schools for your kids. You don’t want it to end. But it has to.” She smiled. “I’m gonna burn this company to the ground.”

“It’s impossible. You can’t.”

“It’s not impossible, and I will.” She dropped her voice. “They killed my nephew. No, that’s wrong. I killed my nephew. I did their bidding. I got him hooked, and it killed him. Did I tell you how old Miles was?”

Brent said nothing.

“Twenty-eight. Had the world by the balls. Liked to play honky-tonk piano, did a great impression of that Reverend Jim guy from that sitcom Taxi. Gets his shoulder banged up playing hockey. I pass on some sample packs of Oxy-Mirac. ‘Motherfucker,’ he tells me one night. ‘That stuff is amazing.’ No shit. Well, he’s not feeling any pain now.”

“Evelyn, I’m so sorry. I truly am. That’s . . . it’s a tragedy. It’s not your fault. All you wanted was to make his pain go away.”

“Not my fault? That’s not what his sister says. My niece. Have I told you about her?”

Brent, feeling this is a story he can’t stop her telling, said, “No.”

“She’s Miles’s sister, but she lives with me. Over the last two years, they lost both their parents. Mom dies of heart failure first, then eighteen months later, the dad’s killed in a car accident. Miles was already living on his own and would have taken his sister in with him if he had to, but Evelyn, the wonderful aunt, steps up, says hey, Alicia, you come live with me. One day, though, she drops in on her brother, wants to see how he’s coming along, he’s dead on the kitchen floor looking like six-month-old cheese.”

Evelyn shook her head sadly. “You know what my niece called me? A merchant of death. Said if I hadn’t given Miles that first pill, he’d still be alive. And you know what? She’s right.”

She patted the leather case on her knees. “It’s all here.”

“Jesus, what have you done.”