She flicked ash onto the floor. “So. Emma. Your son has leukemia.”

I glared at Gabe, and Violeta giggled. “Don’t worry so much! Geez, Gabe said you were uptight, but I had no idea! Your secret’s safe with me. In fact, I’ll tell you one of my own. My son has diabetes. That’s why I do this.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Type one?”

“Yes. Did you know that the cost of insulin has gone up over a thousand percent?” She scowled. “I guess you do know that, since you’re a doctor.”

“Tell her about the plan, Vi,” Gabe said. He’d pushed his chair back, and his long legs were now extended and crossed at the ankles, his hands behind his neck.

“I thought you said you weren’t involved, Gabe?” I said.

“He’s not,” Violeta snapped. “Gabe made it clear he’s only doing this to help his son.”

She inhaled sharply on her cigarette, then stubbed it out on the table, ash scattering into the wood grain. She brushed it away with the side of her hand.

“So. It’s simple, really. You write the scripts. I got some girls. My guy drives the girls around the state to a bunch of pharmacies. The girls fill their scripts. Once we have the pills, we deliver them to people who need them.”

She tapped another cigarette from the pack and lit it, grinning. “We’re the Amazon of the drug world.”

“How do the girls fill the prescriptions?” I asked. “They need ID. Aren’t they afraid of being caught?”

“We change them, make it so they’re different each time. They all have fake IDs. Don’t worry, they’re very good fake IDs. And they have no idea who’s involved. They only know the guy who drives them, so it would never come back to you.”

“Then why do they do it?”

Violeta giggled, smoke billowing between her teeth. “Duh! They need the money!”

The plan was brilliant in its simplicity. And as long as they didn’t sell too many, it was unlikely they’d be caught. I knew from being married to a detective that the cops only had the resources to investigate the big cases, cartels, gangs. And unlike heroin or fentanyl, oxy was readily available through legal means.

A few extra pills in an already crowded market would go unseen.

“When are you sending them out next?”

“Next Thursday. My guy will pick them up at Costco over by Twin Lakes. Gabe will bring your money to you. You’ll get two thousand dollars per prescription.”

“I want three thousand.”

Violeta’s cigarette froze on its way to her mouth. When she looked at me her eyes were flat and black, and suddenly she didn’t seem like such a child. “I don’t think you’re in a position to negotiate, Emma,” she said, her voice soft and menacing.