I open the fanny pack tied around my waist, take out a pair of plastic gloves, and slip them on before pulling out the syringe. I fixed it last night when he thought I was in the shower. My pulse races. I hope I did it right. There’s only one chance to get it right. I can’t screw this up. I tap it just like the guy in the video did, and then before I can second-guess myself, I stab it into Brett’s biggest vein on his arm and push the heroin into him.
His eyes snap awake, and he scrambles back against the headboard, wincing in pain at the sudden movement. He grabs the needle out of his arm and chucks it on the mattress. He rubs his arm, blinking rapidly, staring back and forth between the needle and me.
“What the . . . what the . . . what?” His brain scrambles to make sense of what’s happening to him. “Savannah? Babe? What’s . . .”
“You’re okay, baby. Don’t worry, it’s all right,” I soothe him as his body slowly melts against the headboard and he starts sinking down. His pupils shrink and his eyelids grow droopy. For a second, he tries to fight it, but then his body remembers how much he likes it, and he relaxes into the high.
I stand next to the bed with my hands at my sides, watching him as he nods in and out. He’s got that dopey look on his face, and the skin on his left side is lopsided, like he’s having a stroke. There’s more drool coming out of the sides of his mouth than there was when he was asleep. I’ve never understood heroin junkies. Nothing about it looks attractive—just ugly and pathetic.
He was never permanent. Only for the moment. This is where he would’ve ended up no matter what. He can’t stay clean for more than a few months anyway. It’s always been that way. I’m just speeding things up to their inevitable end. Probably saving innocent people pain, because addicts are some of the most heartbreaking people to love.
We hadn’t met in person since the hospital, and he spent our first round of drinks at The Library going on and on about how hard it was to be an actor. That was his first problem—being an actor in Oxford, Mississippi. You’ve got to get out if you want to do that, but he didn’t have enough ambition or drive to make it across the county line, let alone to Hollywood. But he liked me, and that’s all that mattered, because southern boys will do anything for girls they love. Genevieve taught me that. She taught me lots of things.
I take out another syringe. This one filled to five times the amount I just gave him. Just as pure. I’m not messing around. I get things done right.
“Hi, baby,” I say, leaning over him and wiping the hair off his forehead. “How are you feeling?” He struggles to open his eyes and peek at me. He chews on his tongue while he smiles. I grab the belt from his jeans thrown at the foot of the bed and bring it up to him. There’s no need for the surprise attack this time. His entire body is limp.
I grab his arm, and it flops on the bed. I pull him down so he’s flat on his back. He’ll fall asleep that way. Hopefully the heroin stops his heart before he chokes on his own vomit. I can’t imagine that’s pleasant. Poor thing. I hope it’s fast.
I pull the belt hard around his bicep, just like I practiced on mine so I’d know exactly how to do it when the time came. It’s perfect. His veins bulge, fresh and untouched after months of sobriety. I shove the needle into the largest one, the blue one bulging like the varicose veins used to do around my grandmother’s calves. I push more poison into his body. It’s not even seconds until he’s out cold. I’m not sticking around to watch what happens next.
I leave the needle in his arm and turn around, heading toward the door. I grab the duffel bag from the floor and hoist it over my shoulder. Three hundred thousand dollars is heavy. Who knew? I double-check the room to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything, but the only thing I really need is myself. I don’t bother being quiet. There’s no waking Brett up. I can be as loud as I want. I take one final look, then open the door to let myself out.
Suddenly, there’s strange gurgling behind me, quickly followed by a horrible choking sound that stops me in my tracks. I freeze. But only for a second. Too much emotion makes you weak.
I shut the door tight behind me and hurry down the landing to the stairs. I can get through this. I’ll start again in a new place with a fresh face. It won’t be long until the facts of what happened here slip away like trivial events and I replace them with ones I like better. The only thing left to do is keep the secret, and I’m good at doing that. I learned from the best.
After all, I am my mother’s daughter.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Huge thanks to my publishing team at Thomas & Mercer—Gracie Doyle, Megha Parekh, Charlotte Herscher, Lauren Grange, and Sarah Shaw. Another thanks to my amazing literary agent, Christina Hogrebe, and film agent, Will Watkins. So grateful to have all of your support and collaboration.
To all of my readers. You are the best part of my job. I appreciate every single one of you. Under Her Care is my best work yet, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Gus Berry. My forever and always. Thanks for your creative insight and genius. I’m glad you’re finally old enough to read what I write.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dr. Lucinda Berry is a former psychologist and leading researcher in childhood trauma. Now she writes full time, using her clinical experience to blur the line between fiction and nonfiction. She enjoys taking her readers on a journey through the dark recesses of the human psyche. Her work has been optioned for film and translated into multiple languages.
If Berry isn’t chasing after her son, you can find her running through Los Angeles, prepping for her next marathon. To hear about her upcoming releases and other fun news, visit her on Facebook or sign up for her newsletter at https://lucindaberry.com.