I looked up through the wet windshield at the dark second-floor window of Chloe’s bedroom, where no light was on.

At nine o’clock the next morning, I set the glass Tupperware dish on the polished counter at Oak Street Pharmacy.

Gary, who had filled my blood pressure prescription for twelve years, tipped his head back to look through the bottom half of his bifocals.

“There’s a sticky brown film on the rim,” I said, pointing at the plastic container.

“It smelled heavy and sweet, like fake cherry mixed with alcohol.”

“Did Julian tell you what brand it was?” Gary asked, lifting the dish to study the edge under his overhead strip light.