Page 137 of Sunset Beach
“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.
Drue looked away, she felt the tape being ripped from her skin, and a moment later, the deed was done.
“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.
Wordlessly, he folded her into his arms, crushing her to his chest, stroking her hair, rocking back and forth, crooning something over and over again, but she couldn’t quite make out the muffled words. Finally, he held her at arm’s length, searching her face for… something.
“You’re all right,” he repeated. “Thank God, you’re all right.”
She managed a weary smile. “Well, thank God plus Corey and Jonah.” Now she was blinking back tears. “Dad, I’m okay. Really. I’m okay.”
He let out a long, exasperated sigh, running his hand through his hair. “Tell me the truth,” he said sternly. “Are you just saying that to get me off your back?”
“No!” she exclaimed.
His eyes held hers. “Drue, the doctor told us. You overdosed. On OxyContin. Honey, talk to me. Seriously, I’m not going to judge, but if you have a problem, you need to be honest with me, so I can get you help.”
“Dad! I swear. I promise you, I am not a pill head! It was Ben. He tried to kill me.”
“Ben? Our Ben? Ben Fentress?” Brice looked stricken. “That’s just nuts. It must be the pills talking.”
“It is not the damned Oxy!” she cried. “Ben came over this afternoon. He brought me a kale smoothie that he’d spiked with Oxy, which the doctor just told me was itself spiked with fentanyl. Only he didn’t know that I’m allergic, sort of, to drugs with codeine. It makes me violently ill. So I puked up most of it—before the fentanyl could kill me.”
