Page 85 of Summers at the Saint
“Fentanyl can kill you,” Shannon said. “You don’t see all the people I see coming into our emergency room, either DOA or near death if they’re lucky and somebody’s around with a can of Narcan when they overdose.”
Traci turned around and got herself a bottle of Coke, hoping that the caffeine would help her headache.
“I’m as terrified of fentanyl as you are. We’ve talked to all our employees about the dangers of buying or taking drugs from strangers, and we actually keep Narcan in the staff nurse’s office, just in case.”
Shannon’s lips were pressed together in an uncompromising grimace.
“I know you don’t believe me, but I am deeply, deeply concerned about the safety of Livvy and everyone else on this property. We’ve hired two additional security guards, stepped up patrols in every corner of the property, and tomorrow, we’re installing Ring cameras outside the staff dorm.”
“It’s too little too late. How do we know the same maniac who killed Parrish won’t come after my Olivia?”
Traci’s forehead was pounding like a bass drum. She took an unopened Tylenol bottle from her top desk drawer, turned it this way, then that, trying unsuccessfully to align the tiny white childproof arrows on the cap.
“We don’t,” she said bluntly. “There are no guarantees. Anything can happen at any time to any one of us, despite all the precautions we take. Remember that little kid who drowned at the pool here? There were two of us, lifeguarding, and we were good at it. But that kid died anyway. It could happen to any of us. We could get struck by lightning while out on the golf course, or swerve to miss a slick spot in the road and end up wrapped around a telephone pole.”
She got a letter opener and tried to wedge it under the cap of the pill bottle. “We could take a couple of Tylenol that some nutjob deliberately injected with cyanide. Or we could smoke a joint with fentanyl in it. Or go down in a plane crash on a perfectly cloudless day in June.”
Shannon stared at her, slack-jawed.
“Your daughter is an adult, Shannon. I’m thinking you raised her to make responsible decisions. So maybe you should let her decide if she feels safe and wants to continue working here. Maybe don’t poison her with whatever bizarre, personal feud you have with me and my husband’s family. Or just ask yourself—it’s been over twenty years—Isn’t it time to let this shit go? Can we just call a truce?”
Traci rummaged around in her bottom desk drawer and finally found a tack hammer she’d used to hang the wedding portrait. She placed the Tylenol bottle on its side and gave it a vicious whack. The plastic collapsed and capsules went spurting out of the bottle. She picked up three and swallowed them down.
Shannon reached out for the ever-present box of tissues on the desktop. She blew her nose loudly.
“Let it go? You have no idea what you’re asking me to do. None.”
“Okay, then,” Traci said. “I’ll tell Livvy you came by. It’s late. I guess she’s already clocked out for the day.”
“I’d rather you didn’t tell her I was here,” Shannon said stiffly. “She already thinks I’m a helicopter mom.”
“Hmm. Wonder where she got that idea.”
CHAPTER 43
Whelan did his best to make himself presentable in the locker room. He doused his head in cold water, scrubbed his hands and arms with soap, and donned his fourth clean shirt of the day. He found an old pair of sneakers in his locker and changed out of his boots.
He was combing his wet hair in the mirror when Shorty, one of his coworkers, walked by and gave him a teasing once-over.
“Got a hot date tonight?”
“Yeah. Britney and Beyoncé are dropping by after their big concerts tonight,” Whelan said. “Hey, Shorty, can you give me a ride up to the hotel?”
“I guess.”
Whelan shoved aside a pile of fast-food wrappers and energy drink cans and climbed into the passenger seat of Shorty’s truck.
“What’s up at the hotel?”
“Boss wants to see me,” Whelan said.
Five minutes later, the truck stopped a few yards short of the hotel’s porte cochere. “Management don’t like us driving up here where the paying customers come in,” Shorty explained.
Whelan hopped out. “Thanks, man.”
Inside, the hotel lobby seemed quieter than usual. The desk clerk, a primly dressed middle-aged woman in her blue blazer and pink shirt, gave him a questioning stare as he walked past.
“Mrs. E asked to see me,” he said.
