Page 62 of Fatal Strike
Earlier this afternoon Leah and Jon had stopped by the woman’s house to pick up her prescription bottle. A single pill inside had rattled as Silvia handed the bottle to Leah. A quick glance at the label told Leah all she needed to know.
Leah wrapped her fingers around the bottle. “Silvia, your prescription expired eight months ago. No pharmacy would fill OxyContin without a current prescription.”
Silvia had stared at the wooden porch floor as thoughlooking at Leah pained her. “I told you Dylan buys them for me at a discount drugstore in Houston. The store reuses my old bottle to save money.”
Did Silvia really believe that? “You’re in the medical field and understand the strict laws guarding opioids. My job is to uphold the law. Where are you getting the OxyContin?”
Silvia hadn’t responded, just closed the door with the click of two locks.
On their way back to the church, Leah had flipped open the bottle and read the identification on the tablet.
“It’s a match,” she told Jon. “These came from Molston Pharmaceuticals.”
Silvia, have you lied to us since the beginning?Was the woman a part of gang activities? Or was she simply guilty of believing her son? The SAC had agreed to hold off on bringing Silvia in for now, confirming she had the potential to lead them to Dylan.
Her quick dinner at the church finished, Leah let a warm shower soothe her tired muscles. She changed clothes and redid her makeup. Her attention settled on Facebook. Perhaps it was the prayer service and people coming together for Judge Mendez that coaxed her into looking at familiar faces and learning about their lives.
Leah clicked on her mother’s Facebook page and saw the family had gone to the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, and awhole album of photos resulted. Leah swiped at a tear. She was alone and hated it.
Tapping her finger on the side of her cell phone, she debated as she had many times before. What could Dad do but hang up?
She pressed in their landline number. In the past, she’d disconnected before the first ring or when he or Mom answered.
“Hello.”
Her throat constricted. A myriad of memories of hearing Dad’s voice swept over her.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Dad. It’s Leah.”
“Who?”
“Leah.”
“Where are you?” He sounded kind and strong like the man she remembered.
“In Houston. I live here.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m a special agent for the FBI.” She hoped her career made him proud.
“It’s been a long time.”
“I’m sorry for what I did to all of you. I was selfish, didn’t see how you and Mom wanted to help others less fortunate.” There, she’d said it.
“Too—”
She heard a crash, and the phone went dead. Had he hung up? Leah trembled. She’d done this to herself. She’d sworn never to be rejected again. To keep her distance from her family. But she’d tried her best to become a better person. She’d taken the guilt and blame and pushed herself to expert marksmanship. Wore duty, priority, and responsibility like a shield. And for what? To one day make the call to Dad and hear him say he loved her? He forgave her? Please come home so they could begin to reconcile their differences? Start over? They’d talk about her brave great-great-grandmother Leah. She’d push a wheelchair, change a bedridden sister, have a conversation with an autistic brother, whatever was needed to make things right.
She and Silvia were in the same muddy waters, allowing those they loved to dictate their self-worth. And losing.
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AS PEOPLE ENTEREDSt. Peter’s sanctuary for Judge Mendez’s prayer service, Jon monitored the right rear corner, and Leah handled the left corner.
Mrs. Mendez and her children and mother were the first to arrive. Even the children were dressed in black. Rachel Mendez carried the little boy and held her little girl’s hand as she walked toward her husband’s casket, facing the altar. She reflected her modeling career with grace and poise, her hair and makeup perfected. The little girl cried, and both Mrs. Mendez and her mother attempted to console her.
