“So, you have a lot of pills in your car,” he said. “Are they yours?” My brain worked quicker than it ever had before. If I said no, he’d ask whose they were. I could tell him they were Billy’s, but Billy was dead. I had killed him, and whether he was here to fight for himself or not, I couldn’t do that to him. I refused. No, I’d have to be honest and tell him they were Mom’s. She’d be arrested—oh my God, they’re going to arrest me—and she’d go to prison. But Mom wouldn’t survive jail … but I could. I was younger, stronger, more resilient. Mom would let it break, destroy, kill her, and I
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