Page 3 of Lies and Other Drugs

Step three: Kill Nathaniel Youngblood.

Chapter 2

Iwas renting a room from an elderly woman in the bad part of town. The room was small, and aside from the loud neighbors, it wasn't theworstliving situation. Although I was barely making rent, I liked it. She was kind enough, but also forgetful. She spent more time being embarrassed over the fact that she couldn't remember my name than questioning where I was in the middle of the night. Her forgetfulness would come in handy during a murder investigation.

I've lived in a lot of shady places. Mom would move William and me into whatever home she could afford and with whatever boyfriend who would allow it. I could slum it and eat cereal and water with the best of them. I never understood why people bragged about money, I preferred to brag about survival. It wasn't until Mom settled down with her current husband that we were introduced to how the other half lived.

And the other half didn’t really do a whole lot of living. Bragging, scheming and lying? That waswaymore their style.

Mom married Liam Carlisle during William’s and my freshman year of high school. When they met, he was already married to a perma-bitchy woman, but with little effort, Mom charmed Liam into leaving his wife of twenty years to marry her. She was so proud, flaunting her gigantic diamond ring to anyone that would look while ignoring how our entire home town called her a whore.

Liam was in the real estate business, but he acted like a refined used car salesman. He was the one to insist that William attend school here. An alumnus himself, he put in a good word and made sure that William got every perk available to the Carlisle name. It was a status thing, everything was always a status thing. He didn't care that the whole world thought he was a shitty human for leaving his wife; as long as people knew that he was rich, everything else fell into place.

I took the late-night bus home. I stopped accepting Liam’s money after William died last year. Most of my small trust fund was sitting in the bank untouched. Though he’d never admit it, Liam felt guilty for introducing William to Blackwood University. I considered anything from him to be blood money, and I wanted nothing to do with it. So when I made the decision to move to New York, I did it completely alone. I saved up and didn’t bother telling them where I was—not that they would’ve cared to know.

Mom didn’t really care what I did, as long as I stayed away. When she looked at me, she saw William. And even though she wasn't the best mother in the world, she was human. And humans grieved. So I kept my distance. I didn't call, nor did I remind her of the son she’d lost. She blamed herself for his death, and I was fucked up enough to not correct her.

Sometimes, late at night, I liked to tell myself the layers of circumstances that killed William.

Mom had car trouble, and Liam offered her a ride.

William didn’t get into Princeton.

The moment the toxicology report said overdose, Mom lost it. I remember watching her cry on the floor of the police station. Liam tried to console her. She'd struggled with many vices: sleeping pills, alcohol, and coke. After she and Liam got married, she tried to sober up but instead just got more secretive about her addictions.

But unlike my mother, I couldn't run away from the things that reminded me of William. I couldn’t hide from my reflection; I saw my brother every time I looked in the mirror.

"Hi, Mrs. Mulberry," I said in a bored tone while walking through the door. She was like clockwork, up at five in the morning every day. It made getting ready for work easy. If my alarm didn't wake me up, then at least her shouting at the TV would. Mrs. Mulberry was a tiny thing. She liked to wear tight jeans and crop tops. Her long grey hair was almost always braided. And although she never wore makeup, I found her natural beauty to be stunning—wrinkles and all.

"Hi. There's some breakfast in the skillet," she said while waving at the stovetop. She'd said this every day since I moved in two months ago, but not once had there ever actually been food on the stove. It was one of her quirks, thinking something was there when it wasn’t. Heading towards the refrigerator, I opened the door and pulled out some eggs and bacon. I'd come to learn that Mrs. Mulberry was a creature of habit, and every day she liked her eggs over easy with two slices of bacon and whole wheat toast. And every day, I made it for her with a side of her daily medications.

As I let the skillet heat up, I went to my room and took a quick shower before putting on the uniform I'd have to wear to work. It was denim jeans and a black shirt that read “Uncle Julio’s.” I didn't necessarily have life aspirations of working at a diner, but it was a temporary means to an end. Maybe before William’s death, I would've become an artist and let Liam fund my overseas adventures. But now, I was simply taking each day as it came.

Back in the living room, Mrs. Mulberry was flickering in and out of awareness as she watched the news. I felt sorry for her. The most excitement in her life came from a tiny box in her living room.

After making my way back to the kitchen and plopping some bacon in the hot pan, I pulled out my phone and began scrolling through the Instagram feeds of the students at Blackwood University. Before moving here, I started following students on every social channel available. I learned where the cool kids went, where the parties were, and who was dating who. In a world where everyone bragged about themselves online, it was easy to figure out their secrets.

It's how I found out about the party happening last night. One person with an exclusive invite was all it took. Thanks to social media and the human condition, the world had a front-row seat to all the elite parties. “How was your night?” I absentmindedly asked while keeping my eyes focused on the skillet. I was thinking about how dumb they all were. Every single student at Blackwood documented everything. It was like their phones were permanently stuck in there palms, and their jobs were to brag to the rest of the world about how awesome their lives were.

“It was terrible. My vibrator ran out of batteries,” she said, deadpan.

“Damn, I hate when that happens.” The poor woman had arthritis, too. Such shitty luck.

"Don't forget your rent is due at the end of the week," Mrs. Mulberry called over her shoulder as she watered her fake plants. I flipped the bacon over and smiled when the hot grease hit my wrist.

"Yes, Mrs. Mulberry," I replied. I'd already paid her for this month’s and next month’s rent, too. This was another part of her quirky routine. She was determined to make it known that she was the landlord and in charge. Sometimes people needed to feel in control, and I could respect that. I had a certain kinship with her. I identified with the easy way she was losing her mind.

"Are you going to see Mr. Nordstrom today?" I asked with a sly smile. After a couple of weeks here, I’d learned that her fuck buddy died almost four years ago. And yet, every day, she convinced me that they had afternoon delight at his apartment on the daily. I didn't know if it was her way of acting on something she once missed out on, or if she really thought she was fucking a ghost. Either way, I wasn't one to judge. I still talked to my brother every time I looked in the mirror—which wasn’t very often. I’d been avoiding my reflection for months.

We sat down at the table, and I made quick work of buttering her toast before handing her plate to her. Wrapping my long, strawberry blond hair up into a bun, I scarfed down my breakfast as she gossiped about her soap operas. The restaurant I worked at was only a block away, but I liked to get there early and grab a cup of coffee before the morning rush. Mrs. Mulberry didn't believe in coffee, she said if she wanted to taste something bitter in the morning, then she’d wake Mr. Nordstrom up with a blow job.

"I think Mr. Nordstrom's cheating on me," she finally said. She was staring off at the TV with that dark look in her eyes that I'd come to recognize as her spacey moments. She'd stare for hours on end, making up stories in her head then telling me about them later.

"If he is, then he's a dumbass." I threw her a big smile, knowing that she wasn't really seeing me. I needed to start looking for a new place to live. Pretty soon, I'd come home and the locks would be changed because of her growing paranoia. But until then, I liked it here. I loved my quirky roommate, and I liked that when I was with her, I wasn't looked at like the craziest person in the room.

After cleaning up our plates, I kissed Mrs. Mulberry on the cheek goodbye, and she swatted me away in that cute annoyed way she pulled off effortlessly. Glancing down at my watch, I smiled at the time. And as if on cue, my phone rang. Every day he called. And every day I answered.

My therapist back in California was one persistent motherfucker. But like Mrs. Mulberry, he had his own special blend of demons. I'd noticed that he'd call late at night his time because it was when he left the bar. Most the time, he was drunk off his ass. I couldn’t remember a time that we spoke and he was completely sober. I didn’t really know why he still bothered with me. But my alcoholic therapist was hell-bent on talking me off whatever ledge I was standing on. When I'd announced that I was moving here to confront my brother’s murderers, he made it his personal mission to stop me. After he fucked me goodbye, of course.

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