Chapter 32

Pick a pill, any pill. Pick your poison. Which one will it be tonight?

I hear him rummage through his bag, the sounds growing frantic as he searches. I imagine what he’s thinking—they’re there, he knowsthey’re there, they’re supposed to be there, and I don’t want to picture the wild look in his eyes, the frown on his lips, the flush coloring his cheeks when he can’t find the bottles.

Nowhe calls to me. “Chris?”

His voice is unsteady, and I close my eyes against sudden tears.

“Downstairs,” I say.

He hurries down the steps, two at a time. His bag hangs forgotten from one hand, and his eyes are twin crystals that freeze me in place like an enchantment in a fairy tale. “Where are they?”