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Back Sunset Beach Save as PDF
Chapters (73)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Acknowledgments
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. Epilogue
  71. Also by Mary Kay Andrews
  72. About the Author
  73. Newsletter Sign-up

She opened her eyes slowly. A woman in green surgical scrubs sat on the bed beside her. She was in some sort of curtained-off cubicle, with harsh overhead lighting. An IV tree stood beside her bed and plastic tubing snaked to an IV line attached to her arm.

She blinked and took a breath. She was better. Hell, she was better than better, she was alive.

“You gave us a scare tonight,” the woman said. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“Happened?”

“You overdosed alone, at your home today,” the woman said. “If your friends hadn’t gotten there when they did, you would have died.”

“Overdosed on what?” Drue asked, confused. “I don’t do drugs.”

The woman sighed. “Honey, you can lie to your friends and family, but denial doesn’t work in here. We found the bottle of pills in your purse.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Drue protested. “I swear, I don’t do drugs.”

“We found a bottle of OxyContin in your purse,” the doctor said. “When your blood work comes back, I’m pretty sure we’ll find it was laced with fentanyl. Which could have killed you.”

Drue bristled. “Who are you?”

“I’m Judy Trew, and I’m the attending physician here.”

“Where’s here?” Drue asked.

“You’re in the emergency room at St. Anthony’s. You’re a lucky girl, you know. If that hunky friend of yours hadn’t recognized the signs and told the EMTs to administer Narcan when they did, you’d be just another sad opioid statistic.”

“Dr. Trew,” Drue said, choosing her words slowly. “I did not intentionally take Oxy. You can believe me or not, but I can’t take any kind of codeine. I’m deathly allergic. It gives me a horrible reaction.”

“Nausea, vomiting, like that?” the doctor asked.

“Exactly. I had knee surgery back in January and the strongest thing I could take was Advil. If you don’t believe me, you can check with the surgeon who treated me. Or you can check with the company that drug-tested me when I started my new job last month.”

“Okay, calm down,” the doctor said. “Morphine allergies are pretty rare, but what you have is called a pseudo-allergy, and the effects are just about the same. In your case, the other reason you’re probably alive is because you puked up most of the fentanyl before it could kill you.”

“Lucky me,” Drue said bitterly.

“I’m going to take this IV out now,” Dr. Trew said, donning gloves.

“So how did that Oxy get in your system, and where did that bottle of pills come from?” Dr. Trew asked.

“A gift from a friend,” Drue said grimly. “Former friend, that is.”

55

Drue was perched on the edge of the bed when the curtain of the treatment room parted and Brice Campbell’s formidable presence filled the tiny, claustrophobic space.