Page 9 of Twisted Liars

“In the afternoon?” My eyes widened. “The last thing I remember happened yesterday morning.”

“It’s all right. The doctors said this might happen,” Zara said, patting my arm. “You were given painkillers and sedatives when you were brought in, and you also have a concussion, so you might feel groggy for a while. You’ll probably feel nauseated for a few days as well.”

“So what happened?” I asked. “Was I in a car accident?”

Zara delicately bit her bottom lip and looked away. Clearly, there was something she didn’t want to tell me.

“Zara?” I said, drawing her attention back to me.

She sighed and folded her hands on her lap. “A dog walker found you early this morning,” she said. “You were unconscious on the beach behind our house. The police think you were hit with a heavy object. A rock, perhaps. They aren’t sure.”

“I was attacked?” I said, brows shooting up. “By who?”

Zara’s eyes brimmed with tears, and she lifted one arm to dab at them with her cardigan sleeve. “That was the first question we had, for obvious reasons,” she said, voice thick with emotion. “The police, too. They asked to take your cell phone for a while, and they found some texts.”

“Texts?” I cocked my head. “What kind of texts?”

“You were messaging a drug dealer last night.” Her face crumpled, and she took a deep, shaky breath. “You have them saved in your phone as ‘S’.”

A surge of panic rose in my chest. “Wait… what?”

“We don’t have to talk about it now, sweetheart. You’re not well.”

“Zara, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, heart hammering. “I don’t have a drug dealer!”

She stared at me, disbelief flickering in her eyes. “The police said the number could only be traced to some sort of burner phone that isn’t registered under anyone’s name. Apparently that’s common amongst shady underworld figures,” she said. “In the messages, you were asking this S person to meet you last night so you could ‘get some product’.”

She put the last few words in air quotes. I shook my head emphatically. “I have no idea who sent those texts, but it wasn’t me.”

“The dealer messaged you back, and they didn’t sound particularly happy. Something about you owing money from last time,” Zara went on. “You told them you’d bring half. I guess you two got into an argument about it when you met up, and they hit you and ran off.”

I took a deep breath and sat up a little straighter. “Zara, I swear. I don’t do drugs, and I didn’t go out last night to meet up with a dealer.”

She tearfully sniffed. “I want to believe you, Amerie. Really, I do. But the text messages are clear. Also, when you were first brought in, I had Flora personally run the labs on your blood.”

“Who?” I cut in, brows furrowing.

“Dr. Carmichael, I mean. We knew we could trust her to do everything properly, unlike some of these other doctors around here,” Zara said, casting a dark look around the hospital room. She turned to focus on me again. “Your tests came back positive for recent heroin use. There were traces of MDMA in your bloodstream too.”

“What?” My eyes bulged. “No way. That’s not possible!”

“It is, sweetheart.” Zara sniffed back more tears. “Tests don’t lie.”

I gritted my teeth. “I’m telling you, I don’t do drugs,” I said, indignant heat rising in my chest. “I’ve never touched them. I don’t even drink! You know that!”

“I thought I knew that,” Zara said softly. “But lately, I’ve suspected something was going on with you. All the problems at school. The need for a therapist. Telling us how you keep seeing and hearing things. And you’re always pale with those dark circles under your eyes. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but all the signs have been there.”

“Zara, I swear. This is a mistake. Maybe Dr. Carmichael mixed my test results up with someone else’s results.”

She sighed. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk to me about it. I totally understand,” she said. “But please promise me that you’ll speak about it with your therapist. I just want you to get help.”

A lump formed in my throat, and I lay back against the pillow, feeling overwhelmed and confused. I had no memory of last night’s interaction with the drug dealer. No memory of the hours leading up to it. Hell, when I woke up a few minutes ago, I struggled to even remember my own name for a few frantic seconds.

My weary mind flashed back over the last few months. With all the drama surrounding me and my mental state, I’d often wondered if I was losing my mind.

Was it possible that I’d developed a drug problem and somehow shut off all knowledge of it from the main part of my brain? Could something like that even happen to a person?

“Promise me, sweetheart,” Zara said, squeezing my hand. “Please.”

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