For so long, doctors had been told that morphine was evil, addictive. Then the drug industry shifted its marketing, telling the medical community that freedom from pain was a fundamental human right. And we’d lapped it up. Until people started dying and we had to cut our patients off.

All this time, I’d thought I was wrong to forge those prescriptions, to illegally sell oxy. I knew I was doing it for the right reason, but I still thought my choice was immoral.

Now I wasn’t quite so sure.

My job as a mother was to keep my son alive. And my job as a doctor was to help people, not watch them suffer.

“I used to believe in justice,” I told her. “I thought life was fair, that karma existed and everything would eventually roll around to equity. I don’t believe that anymore. Bad people stay healthy, good people become addicted, loved ones get sick and die. Some people suffer blow after blow, while others drift along easily. The world is unfair and unjust and just really damn cruel. I wish I could help you, Julia.”

“You can. I’m not an addict. Maybe I’m addicted, but I’m not an addict. I just need pain relief. Please. Without it, I don’t know if I can go on living.”

CHAPTER 20

NATE TOSSED HIS KEYS and wallet on the console table at home, his mind still on Emma’s strange behavior at the hospital. Nate questioned suspects every day, and they all displayed the same signs when lying: too many details, slowed-down movements, helpfully offering other explanations.

Her statement about not seeing anybody at the hospital included all of those hallmarks. But she’d left before he’d had a chance to confront her.

The house smelled of the rich, tantalizing scent of beef stew and freshly baked bread. Charlie loped over to him, pressing his nose into Nate’s leg and licking his palm. Nate scratched him behind the ears.

The living room was a complete mess. Toys formed an obstacle course across the carpet. Picture books were scattered everywhere. Dirty plates and cups were stacked on every available surface. Nate was surprised. Emma usually ran the house, and their lives, with such military precision.

Despite the clutter, the fireplace was on, the flame flickering in the grate, making a cheerful crackling noise. If only they’d had the time to put up the Christmas lights, to hang the stockings and decorate a tree. Still, the room was cozy and warm. Like a home. A family home.

Josh was bent over the coffee table coloring while Pokémon fought an epic battle on the TV in the background. The knobs of his shoulders and arms and knees were sharp and severe, his skin a sickly shade of pasty white.