From Housewife To His Worst Ex-Wife
Instead, she sets them on the bedside table with a sharp click.
"Fine. But when you're in pain later, don't blame me."
She leaves in a huff, and I wait until I hear her go into the kitchen before examining the pills more closely. The three I recognize, the three mystery ones I've been hiding, and the new white pill. I pick it up carefully and turn it over in my palm.
There are letters stamped on one side: "OXY 80."
My blood turns to ice. Oxycodone. Eighty milligrams. That's enough to knock out a horse, maybe even kill someone who isn't used to opiates. Combined with the other drugs she's been giving me, it could easily cause respiratory failure.
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