For Better and Worse

by Margot Hunt

  “Sure.” I picked up his drink for him and followed him into the living room. He put the chips and salsa on the glass top coffee table, next to an ugly blue glass dolphin figurine. Once his hands were free, I handed him his bourbon.

  “Thanks, Nat.” Robert sat on the long sofa and I picked a spot on the matching kitty-corner love seat. I noticed he’d put down his bourbon without taking a sip and wondered if this would turn out to be a problem. What if he wasn’t in the mood to drink?

  “Shall we make a toast?” I held up my glass. “To old friends.”

  “The best kind.” Robert held up his glass and we pretended to clink them together over the space I had left between us. My breath caught in my chest as he put the crystal glass to his thin lips and took a sip. Would he notice a funny taste or the particles of drugs floating in the amber liquid? But Robert just sighed and shook his head. “What a treat. Blanton’s is my favorite.”

  “How have you been coping with everything?” I was surprised at how warm and sympathetic I was managing to sound. I was a better actress than I’d realized.

  “Okay.” Robert shrugged helplessly. “As you said, it’s been a tough week. You probably hear this all the time from your clients, but I really am innocent. I didn’t do those disgusting, horrible things I’m being accused of.”

  “Actually, my clients don’t always insist on their innocence. Most of them are guilty, and don’t pretend otherwise. So your maintaining your innocence will carry a lot of weight, if your case does go to trial.”

  “Really?” Robert’s expression was so full of naked hope, I almost laughed.

  I was lying, of course. Many of my clients maintained their innocence, right up until they accepted a plea deal or were sentenced, even when there was no doubt in my mind of their guilt. I think they believed I’d fight harder for them if I thought they’d been wrongly accused. The truth was, it didn’t make a difference to me. My job was to defend the innocent and guilty alike, and I’d always taken that responsibility seriously.

  But it was okay for Robert to think I was naive enough to believe his insisting on his innocence meant anything. I wanted him to relax, stay calm and drink every last drop of the poisoned bourbon.

  “Still, I just can’t stop thinking—even if Tate Mason does retract these accusations...wait.” Robert looked nervous. “You know it was Tate who made the accusations, right?”

  “Yes, I had heard that. He’s a troubled kid, though, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s an understatement. Although I never thought he was capable of something like this.” Robert shook his head. “I always thought he and I had a good rapport. That he trusted me, even.”

  “Sometimes when kids lash out, they pick a safe person in their life as the target,” I suggested.

  Robert nodded eagerly. “That’s probably it! I think he’s acting out, and that he’ll come to his senses eventually and tell the truth. But what happens then?”

  “The police will close the investigation. They wouldn’t pursue charges against you without a complainant.” I answered as though he had been asking me my legal opinion, even though I was pretty sure he was speaking in a broader sense.

  “I know. That’s not what I meant.” He took another sip of his drink. Each time he brought the glass to his lips, I tried not to watch too closely to see how much he’d consumed or if he’d noticed anything was off about it. “Will I be allowed to go back to my job, like nothing’s happened? Can the school fire me for being accused of something I didn’t do?”

  This time, I thought he was looking for legal advice, but it wasn’t in my area of expertise.

  “I’m not sure. I know the law in Florida is that an employee can be fired at will, as long as the reason isn’t discriminatory. But employment law is not my specialty.”

  “But how can they fire me for something I didn’t do? That’s not right!” Robert sounded so outraged, I might have believed him to be innocent, if I didn’t know for a fact that he wasn’t. He would have made a very convincing witness, I thought. It was a good thing he wouldn’t get the chance.

  “Hopefully they won’t,” I said soothingly. “But worrying about it won’t help anything. I know it’s easier said than done, but you need to wait and see what happens.”

  “I know, you’re right.” He took another sip of bourbon. It looked like he was close to emptying his glass. “It’s just hard sitting here day after day, all alone, wondering if today is the day the police are going to show up to arrest me. I haven’t even been able to talk to...” Robert’s voice trailed off and he turned to look at me sharply.

  My stomach lurched. Had he figured out his drink was spiked? My mind raced, wondering what I should do. I didn’t think he’d ingested enough of the drugs to kill him.

  But instead of setting down his glass and accusing me of attempting to kill him, Robert pointed a finger at me. “Your phone!”

  “What?”

  “Can I borrow it?”

  “Why do you need it?” My iPhone was safely at home in one of the kitchen drawers. I had brought the burner phone with me just in case I needed to make a call, but I couldn’t let him use it. It was a cheap throwaway phone, and the fact that I had it—and not my smartphone—might make him suspicious.

  “I just need to talk to...someone.” He was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, balancing an ankle against his knee, which he began to bounce nervously.

  “But why can’t you call them from your phone?”

  Robert sighed. “I’ve been seeing someone. And she hasn’t been taking my phone calls since all of this started. She might answer a number she doesn’t recognize.”

  I was so surprised, I set my own glass—which I had only been pretending to drink out of—down on the coffee table next to the ugly dolphin. Robert had a girlfriend? I hadn’t calculated for that when I was making my plan. What if he hadn’t been alone when I’d arrived? Or, even worse, what if she suddenly showed up before I’d finished killing him?

  “I didn’t know you were dating someone,” I said. “Is it anyone I know?”

  Robert looked at me warily and I instantly realized why he was being so cagey.

  “Someone from school?” I guessed. When Robert didn’t say anything, my eyebrows arched up. “A married someone?”

  “No!” Robert looked shocked. “I would never do that!”

  Robert’s prudish response caused another wave of disgust to wash over me. I had to fight to keep my expression neutral. He’d molested my son and at least one other boy, but he drew the line at having an affair with a married woman?

  “I’ve been seeing Michelle Cole,” Robert admitted.

  Michelle was a school mom. I’d been surprised when she and her then husband, Cooper, had decided to divorce. They’d always appeared well matched—they were both athletic and outdoorsy, and before their divorce, seemed to spend every weekend they could out on their boat with their three boys. Their oldest, Zachary, was in Charlie’s class at school.

  The enormity of this suddenly hit me. Robert was dating a single mother of three boys. Was he romancing her just to have access to her children? It was a nauseating thought. No wonder Michelle wasn’t returning his phone calls. She had probably spent the past week going over every single moment of their relationship, trying to remember if her boys had ever been alone with Robert. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d shown up that night with her own plastic baggie filled with ground-up oxycodone.

  “We’ve been dating for a few months,” Robert continued. “There’s nothing in the school rules about relationships between school administrators and parents, but we knew it would be a focus of gossip and speculation. We decided to keep it quiet until we knew where the relationship was going.”

  Robert sighed and took another sip of bourbon. He looked at the glass, as though surprised that it was empty. I sprang to my feet, suddenly worried th
at there might be blue residue at the bottom of the glass.

  “Let me get you a refill,” I offered, grabbing the glass.

  “I probably shouldn’t. I’m starting to feel a little tipsy.” Robert touched a finger to his temple, as though he was trying to will himself into sobriety.

  Not if I can help it, I thought. “You’re not driving. One more won’t hurt, right?”

  I took his glass back to the kitchen before he could argue further. I glanced back to make sure Robert hadn’t followed me, but he was still on the couch. He reached for a tortilla chip, dipped it in salsa and popped it in his mouth.

  I quickly dumped the rest of the blue powder in his glass and filled it with another generous pour of bourbon. It was a good thing he was drinking it quickly. I wondered how long it would take before the drugs kicked in.

  “Here you go,” I said, returning to the living room and handing him his glass.

  “Thanks. And thanks for coming over tonight, Nat. You find out who your real friends are at a time like this.”

  Robert’s speech was starting to sound a little slower, a bit slurred. That was a good sign, I thought.

  “What were we talking about before you left?” he asked. “Oh, right—Michelle. That’s what I mean about finding out who your real friends are. This is the woman I thought I could possibly build a life with, maybe even marry someday. Now she won’t even take my phone calls.”

  Robert sounded piteous and sorry for himself.

  “Maybe she wants to give you some space,” I suggested.

  He shrugged. “Or maybe she thinks I’m guilty and doesn’t want to be associated with me.”

  “I’m sure that she doesn’t think that,” I lied. “Not if she knows you at all.”

  “That’s why I have to talk to her!” Robert had been lolling back against the couch, his eyes glazed. I was surprised at how fast the drug-and-alcohol combination seemed to be affecting him. I just hoped he stayed awake long enough to imbibe the second dose. Suddenly he sat up straight, looking agitated. “I have to tell her I’m innocent! You believed me. She’ll have to believe me, too.”

  “I’m sure she will.” I tried to keep my tone soothing. I glanced at his drink. He’d already consumed almost half of the second glass. A few more sips should do it.

  Robert stood, looking a little unsteady on his feet. “Where’s your phone? Is it in your purse?”

  He pointed at my bag, which I’d left on a table by the front door.

  “Actually, I think I might have left it in my car,” I began, but Robert was already heading toward the entryway.

  A sober Robert would never have rummaged through a woman’s handbag without permission. This drunk and possibly already stoned Robert had no such scruples. I watched in stunned silence as he lurched over to my handbag and picked it up. He fished around inside, pushing aside my wallet, keys and makeup bag. Finally, triumphantly, he pulled out the cheap flip phone.

  “Here it is!” He held the phone up. “I’m going to call Michelle!”

  His Michelle was even more slurred. I was surprised at how quickly the drugs seemed to be affecting him. I wondered if he’d been drinking before I arrived. Now that I thought about it, his eyes had seemed a bit bright, his movements a bit slow when I first walked in.

  “I really don’t think that’s a good idea—” I began.

  Robert ignored me as he tapped numbers into the phone. I assumed he was too drunk to remember her phone number—and who memorized phone numbers these days, anyway?—but a moment later, he was holding the phone to his ear.

  “Damn, it’s going to voice mail. Should I leave a message?”

  “No!” I said, alarmed.

  He ignored me. “Michelle? It’s Robert. Please call me back, either on this phone or on my regular phone. I need to talk to you. Please. It’s important.” He hesitated, swaying gently on his feet. “I love you. I know we haven’t said that to each other before, but it’s true. I just wish I could tell it to you personally instead of your voice mail. So, that’s it. I love you and please call me back and I love you. Again. Bye.”

  Robert squinted at the phone, and hit another button, presumably to end the call. I held my hand out for the phone, and Robert handed it to me. He sat down heavily on the couch. “I’m not sure I should have done that,” he commented.

  I checked the phone. It looked like the call was still live, the voice mail presumably still recording. I hit the end call button and stared down at it. This wasn’t truly a problem, I tried to reassure myself. The phone was prepaid and unregistered, so no one could connect it to me. And that was in the unlikely event Michelle actually kept the message and eventually gave it to the police. What were the chances of that? If I were her, I’d delete it immediately. According to Robert, no one had known they were dating, so I had to assume she wouldn’t want to bring attention to it now that Robert was a pariah.

  “What do you think? Did I sound too needy?” Robert asked anxiously. “Should I call her back and try to explain?”

  “No, that would be a terrible idea.” And then, not sure that I had convinced him, I added, “Let it go for now. I’m sure once she listens to your message, she’ll want to talk to you.”

  “You think so?” Robert’s face registered relief. He picked up his glass, drained it and held it out to me. “Would you mind getting me some more?”

  “Sure,” I said, standing and sliding the phone into my pants pocket. I went into the kitchen and checked the bottom of his glass. There was some blue residue there, but not much. Should I rinse out his glass? I wondered, but decided against it. If Robert had been suicidal, which is what I wanted the police to believe, he wouldn’t have bothered to rinse it out. I added some bourbon to the glass, although not too much. I didn’t want him to drink to the point that he’d start vomiting up the drugs.

  “Here you go,” I said, returning to the living room.

  Robert didn’t respond. He was lying back on the white sofa, his eyes closed, mouth slackened and open, his arms folded over his chest. I froze, wondering if it was possible he was already dead, when he suddenly let out a snore so loud, I actually jumped, pressing a hand over my racing heart.

  I set his glass on the coffee table in front of him, then returned to my seat, watching him.

  And then I waited for Robert to die.

  Chapter 17

  The wait was terrible.

  An hour passed. And another. I snapped on the rubber gloves I’d brought with me, and spent part of the time washing and putting away the glass I’d used, then wiping down all the surfaces I’d touched with the antibacterial wipes. Once I was done cleaning, I returned to my spot on the love seat to watch Robert’s chest rise and fall rhythmically. How long would it take for him to die? I thought about leaving, but that seemed risky. What if Robert somehow survived, and eventually woke up? Was that even a possibility after the large amount of oxycodone and alcohol he’d consumed?

  At just before ten o’clock, I went to the bathroom to use the toilet. I kept my gloves on and thoroughly wiped down the toilet seat and handle after I was done. I opened the drug cabinet to look inside. There were the typical male items—a razor, shaving cream, toothpaste, bottle of aspirin. There were also a few prescription bottles lined up neatly on the top shelf. I turned them toward me, reading the names of the drugs inside. The first two were innocuous—one was a course of antibiotics, which Robert had apparently not bothered to finish, the other I recognized as blood pressure medication.

  The third didn’t have a label on it.

  I picked the bottle up, opened it and shook a few of the pills onto my hand and stared down at them, horror dawning.

  They were blue oxycodone pills, stamped with the same letter and numbers of the pills I had ground up and put in Robert’s bourbon. Why did Robert have a prescription for oxycodone in his bathroom cupboard? Although that wasn’t
right, either. If these had been prescribed by a doctor and dispensed at a pharmacy, the bottle would be labeled. The fact that it wasn’t meant that Robert had most likely obtained them illegally. Which meant...was it possible Robert had an oxycodone addiction?

  I blinked, trying to clear my thoughts. Robert had been in a nasty car accident years ago, back when he was still married to Venetia. A teenager had been texting a friend and rear-ended Robert’s car at a stoplight. I’d dropped off dinner for the two of them—white chicken chili and corn bread—to this very house. I remembered Robert had been sleeping when I arrived with the food. Venetia had told me in a hushed voice that he’d been prescribed some heavy-duty painkillers for his lower back injury. That had been, what? Five, six years ago? Had he been taking oxycodone all this time?

  Everything I had read about the drug came flooding back to me. How it was possible to build up a tolerance to oxycodone. That the amount that would cause an overdose varied greatly. That it would take more of the drug—and in some cases, a lot more—to kill someone who had built up a tolerance than it would to kill someone who had never taken it.

  I had made a terrible mistake by not factoring in the possibility that Robert could have already been taking oxycodone. Hands shaking, I put the bottle back in the medicine cabinet and closed the door.

  While researching oxycodone online, I’d come across a story about a woman in the late stages of Lou Gehrig’s disease who had attempted to commit suicide by overdosing on the medication. She’d underestimated the amount she needed to take, and ended up going into coma that she woke up from a few days later. That meant that if I had underdosed Robert, it was possible, maybe even probable, that Robert would wake up at some point—tonight, tomorrow, the day after—and know that I had tried to kill him. And what would stop him from going straight to the police?

  Think, I told myself. There must be a solution.

  But the panic that had taken root once I realized what was in the pill jar began to bloom into full-blown terror. My breath shortened, my pulse picked up, thrumming through me with a terrible urgency.