that didn’t have something interesting … Ambien was popular for insomnia, Ativan for anxiety. Then, of course, there were Prozac, Ritalin, Zoloft, lithium. Those were trickier because people who had any of those medications usually took them regularly; they knew exactly how many pills were in each bottle. If they tried to refill before the time allotted by the doctor or insurance company, a red flag would go up. They’d know someone else had been taking the pills. Emily had learned that lesson the hard way.
She drifted around the bedroom, looking at the books on the shelves, moving into the bonus room, which this family was using as a cozy television sitting area. She could tell by the feel of the fabrics that the furniture was expensive.
There was another couple in the master bath, oohing and aahing over the steam shower and marble floors. Emily sank down on the love seat and looked out over the tops of the maple and sycamore trees, pretending to take in the view; this was where you’d come afterthe children went to bed. You’d bring your glass of wine and look outside, unwind. You’d talk to each other about your day—how the kids were wild, how the boss was a jerk.
When the other couple left, she went into the bathroom and shut the door. She’d have to be quick; she could hear other voices on the second floor. The master bedroom was one of the most important features of a house.
She didn’t have to be cautious, like she’d had to be as a cleaning lady. Then she’d take only one or two pills from whatever she found, depending on how much was in the bottle. She’d carry little bags in her pocket, careful to keep everything separate and labeled. You got more money that way, Dean had taught her, when people knew what they were buying. The pain pills and the antidepressants had the highest value. The ADD drugs were good, too. Though Dean’s dealer would take anything for the “cocktail parties.” Someone would have a bowl of prescription drugs, and the people at the party would take whatever was in there without knowing exactly what they were ingesting. Mostly, it was kids. It was totally crazy. Emily didn’t understand how anyone could take a pill without knowing what it was or what it could do.
She opened the cabinet and started rifling through. Cold medicine. She grabbed the Sudafed, because that could be used in making other drugs. There was always demand for it. There were Motrin, Tylenol, and a box of Imodium. None of that was any good. The top two shelves were all prescriptions. Jackpot. She didn’t bother to look at what they were; she just put it all in her bag. They could sort it out in the car. There was no one in the room when she came back out. So she drifted down the stairs, where Dean was still talking to the broker.
“And it’s well built, not like a lot of places,” she was saying. “Some of these homes have paper-thin walls. You can hear everything from room to room. But not here.”
“Oh, yes,” said Dean. “I can see that. Very solid construction.”
They made the loop of the whole house for show. Dean liked the office with its big oak desk and ergonomic chair. Emily loved the girl’s room with the dollhouse and four-poster bed. The broker gave Dean her card and asked them to sign the sheet, provide an e-mail; she’d stay in touch about her other listings. Mr. and Mrs. Greg Glass, [email protected]. Emily liked it when he wrote that; it made her feel good, for some reason.
As they walked back out to the car, she almost told Dean the thing she’d wanted to tell him. But when she looked back, the broker was standing on the front stoop watching them. And when Emily looked ahead, Brad had rolled down the window. She saw his hand dangling out with a cigarette between the fingers. She had a strange feeling, a little rise of panic, that she couldn’t move forward or move back. It wasn’t the right moment for good news. Emily wondered if it ever would be.
chapter five
Dear
She drifted around the bedroom, looking at the books on the shelves, moving into the bonus room, which this family was using as a cozy television sitting area. She could tell by the feel of the fabrics that the furniture was expensive.
There was another couple in the master bath, oohing and aahing over the steam shower and marble floors. Emily sank down on the love seat and looked out over the tops of the maple and sycamore trees, pretending to take in the view; this was where you’d come afterthe children went to bed. You’d bring your glass of wine and look outside, unwind. You’d talk to each other about your day—how the kids were wild, how the boss was a jerk.
When the other couple left, she went into the bathroom and shut the door. She’d have to be quick; she could hear other voices on the second floor. The master bedroom was one of the most important features of a house.
She didn’t have to be cautious, like she’d had to be as a cleaning lady. Then she’d take only one or two pills from whatever she found, depending on how much was in the bottle. She’d carry little bags in her pocket, careful to keep everything separate and labeled. You got more money that way, Dean had taught her, when people knew what they were buying. The pain pills and the antidepressants had the highest value. The ADD drugs were good, too. Though Dean’s dealer would take anything for the “cocktail parties.” Someone would have a bowl of prescription drugs, and the people at the party would take whatever was in there without knowing exactly what they were ingesting. Mostly, it was kids. It was totally crazy. Emily didn’t understand how anyone could take a pill without knowing what it was or what it could do.
She opened the cabinet and started rifling through. Cold medicine. She grabbed the Sudafed, because that could be used in making other drugs. There was always demand for it. There were Motrin, Tylenol, and a box of Imodium. None of that was any good. The top two shelves were all prescriptions. Jackpot. She didn’t bother to look at what they were; she just put it all in her bag. They could sort it out in the car. There was no one in the room when she came back out. So she drifted down the stairs, where Dean was still talking to the broker.
“And it’s well built, not like a lot of places,” she was saying. “Some of these homes have paper-thin walls. You can hear everything from room to room. But not here.”
“Oh, yes,” said Dean. “I can see that. Very solid construction.”
They made the loop of the whole house for show. Dean liked the office with its big oak desk and ergonomic chair. Emily loved the girl’s room with the dollhouse and four-poster bed. The broker gave Dean her card and asked them to sign the sheet, provide an e-mail; she’d stay in touch about her other listings. Mr. and Mrs. Greg Glass, [email protected]. Emily liked it when he wrote that; it made her feel good, for some reason.
As they walked back out to the car, she almost told Dean the thing she’d wanted to tell him. But when she looked back, the broker was standing on the front stoop watching them. And when Emily looked ahead, Brad had rolled down the window. She saw his hand dangling out with a cigarette between the fingers. She had a strange feeling, a little rise of panic, that she couldn’t move forward or move back. It wasn’t the right moment for good news. Emily wondered if it ever would be.
chapter five
Dear
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