One Past Midnight by Jessica Shirvington Read Free Book Online

point,since I was pretty sure Capri was happy to swing either way. “But when I
do
, it will be a guy.”
    We stopped outside the music store and she shrugged, satisfied that I wasn’t lurking in any kind of closet. “Just want you to get some. You know, before you’re fifty.”
    Part of me, a fairly big part, totally agreed. But I glared anyway. “You’re a bitch, you know that?”
    â€œI might’ve been told once or twice before,” she called out as I walked away.
    I stopped by an office-supply store and bought a lined black notebook. I would need it as part of the plan. With shaking fingers I also dialed a number on my phone and made an appointment for later.
    At the drugstore, I said hello to Mom and the pharmacist Denise, then I wriggled awkwardly—thanks to my cast—into one of the white jackets that were supposed to make us look more “medically informed.” When Mom and Denise weren’t looking, I slid my notebook onto the counter. I kept a magazine resting on top of it, so when customers came in they wouldn’t see the list.
    1. Test blood theory—exterior physical reaction
    2. Test hair—pigment and removal
    3. Test laxatives—internal physical response
    4. Test poison—loss of consciousness and organ failure. If points one through four achieve a successful outcome, proceed to next point
    My hand trembled as I wrote number five.
    5. Choose
    I chewed on a fingernail, staring at what I’d just written. Could it really be that simple? I didn’t know, but even so . . . I crossed out the last point. It was too early for that. Points one through four first. Then I’d worry about what would happen next.
    Giddy from the rush of thinking such forbidden thoughts, I did what I’d really come here for: I stocked up on everything I was going to need, waiting until Denise went on her break to grab some items from behind her counter. By the time I returned to the register, someone was waiting and looked like he’d been there for a while.
    â€œSorry for the wait. What can I get you?” I was sure I was flushed from guilt. I hoped he hadn’t seen me shoplifting from my own family’s store.
    The guy, who’d had his back to me, spun around and glared. I let out a little gasp before I could stop myself. He was probably in his early twenties—and his presence packed a punch. Trouble and attitude radiated from him. And therewas something . . . more. In his eyes. They were startling: dark blue and intense, with a depth you didn’t normally see. Eyes that could too easily see through someone.
    I set my shoulders and got ready to deny any accusations. But he just gave me an up-and-down look I couldn’t read—other than to know it wasn’t flattering—and shoved a handful of crumpled prescriptions toward me.
    â€œHow long?” he asked, his full lips set in a straight line.
    I gave him a tight smile as I sifted through over a dozen prescriptions, more than a few for heavy-duty medications. That explained the aggressive, defensive attitude: drug dealer.
    â€œThese are going to take a while,” I told him. “Since there are so many and they’re not all in one name.”
Hint: I know what you’re doing.
“The pharmacist will need to see ID and get an authorization.”
After which we’ll call the police.
    I kept a firm hold of the prescriptions, expecting him to snatch them and make a run for it. But he simply shrugged, leaned against the counter, and folded his arms.
    â€œJust call Roxbury Hospital and give them the prescription codes and my ID details. They’ll verify.” He slipped a driver’s license out of his wallet and tossed it on the counter before narrowing his eyes at me. “How long?”
    This guy was an ass. And thankfully I wasn’t in Wellesley today; I didn’t have to behave. I sucked in a breath and was about to tell him to take a hike