“We have a crazy neighbor,” she explained. “She’ll snort or inject anything she can get her hands on. I remember her from high school. Hard to believe she was a cheerleader. You just can’t look at somebody and tell, you know?”

She led us into a tiny living room, the couch almost reaching the walls on either side of the room. The air smelled clean, if a little stale. A man was sitting on the couch, a crocheted blue blanket tucked over his lap. He was probably in his early thirties with long, greasy hair and eyes sunken in the sockets. When he saw us, he struggled to stand, but Pamela pressed him down onto the couch.

“Come on, Mom,” he complained.

“No need to get up for us, Eugene,” Ben said. He turned to Gabe and me. “Eugene had his left hip replaced last year. The surgery left him with nerve damage. He used to live in Tacoma, but he moved out here after he lost his job. Now he has to drive once a month back out to Tacoma to get his prescription.”

“Just had the dosage cut again,” Eugene said. He lifted one leg with both hands, wincing.

Pamela left the room and returned a minute later with one white pill and a plastic cup of water, like what you’d give a child. She handed both to Eugene. “I’ve had to lock them up. And the gun.”

The word hung heavy and black in the room. A flush of pity bloomed on my cheeks, but I was glad to have my gun in my ankle holster.

“Come on out here with me.” Pamela moved toward the compact kitchen. “I’ll get you a coffee.”

The three of us followed her and accepted mugs of steaming black coffee. She slipped Ben an envelope, and he dropped a baggie of pills into her desperate hands.

I looked away, my gaze briefly catching Gabe’s. He looked as gloomy as I felt. The story of prescription opioids wasn’t just one of addiction and overdose, but one of people like Eugene who were becoming increasingly desperate to stay pain-free. But the moral and legal implications were huge. I knew that.

“How much is Eugene taking?” I asked Pamela.

“Two hundred and forty milligrams a day.”

I tried not to look surprised, but she’d already seen my face.

“You have no right to judge, missy!” she snapped. “You don’t know what he’s been through.”

“I’m not—” I stopped because it didn’t matter. “Just get some naloxone. You can get it from any pharmacy.”

Pamela glared at me. Ben grabbed my arm and tugged me toward the door, Gabe hurrying after us. “We’d better be heading off. Talk to you later, Pamela!”

I stumbled down the steps after him.

“What?” I asked. “Why was she so mad?” My voice was shrill in self-defense.