Free Premeditated by Josin L. Mcquein Page B

her prescription meds.”
    “Fascinating.”
    “It is—really. Especially the part where she decided that Western medicine had it in for her and started seeing an acupuncturist instead of a regular doctor.”
    “This is one of those conversations that sounded right in your head, isn’t it?”
    “Yes. But it will also make sense to you in about three seconds when I mention ma huang.”
    “Who’s that? The acupuncturist?”
    “It’s an herb, genius, not a person. Specifically, it’s the herb said acupuncturist gives my mother for her hypochondrial asthma.”
    “And?”
    “And, she stopped taking it when her company ordered blood tests for their employees and hers spiked for amphetamines.”
    “It made her fail a drug test?”
    “Oh yeah. She was furious—especially when she found out that the bitter orange she takes for her stomach could do the same thing. Mom went on a two-day Google binge looking up anything and everything that could create a false positive. If your body chemistry’s right, even Advil can sink you.”
    “Somehow I can’t see Brooks agreeing to down a whole bottle of Advil, either,” I said.
    “What has living on the other coast done to your brain cells?” Tabs opened a packet of sugar from the tray and dumped it into her pudding cup. “Herbal remedies are capsules full of powder,” she said as she stirred it in. “Presto, change-o, rearrange-o. No one knows the difference, and Boy Wonder’s left with a lovely black mark on his permanent record.”
    Then she wadded up the sugar packet and flicked it right between my eyes.
    Maybe I had a plan after all.

10
    Six desserts later (Tabs made another pudding run), we had the beginnings of an idea. It involved sports drinks and the hope that bitter orange tasted enough like regular orange that it wouldn’t tip anyone off who happened to drink it.
    Not much, but at least it was another step.
    By the time Uncle Paul opened the door to Claire’s room, the Lowry stuff was back in my bag, Tabs’ notes were tucked away, and we had removed all evidence of criminal mischief except the pudding cups.
    “Hi, Mr. Reed,” Tabs said. “I stole pudding. Want one?”
    “Maybe later,” he said. “And I’ve told you that you can call me Paul.”
    “I’ve called you Mr. Reed since I was four. It sounds weird.”
    “Does that mean I need to start calling you Glam—”
    “No!” Tabs jumped up. “It’s not necessary to repeat that name in its entirety ever again.” She grabbed her keys and the empty pudding containers. “I’ll just go dispose of these and get out of the way so there’s no chance of hearing it. Ever. Again.”
    Uncle Paul grinned; Aunt Helen drifted across the room and perched on the chair beside Claire’s bed. This was the first time she had been away from Claire’s room for longer than forty-five minutes since Claire was hospitalized. In the few days since I’d been back, she’d aged ten years.
    “Bye, Tabs,” I said.
    “Bye, D, Mr.… er … Paul, Helen. If the Cuckoo bird comes to while I’m gone, tell her I was here, okay?”
    “Sure.” I nodded.
    “Tomorrow?” she asked.
    “At the house.”
    And then she was gone, leaving me, Claire, Uncle Paul, Aunt Helen, and the quiet no one knew how to break. For hours, I did my homework at the table until I couldn’t stand the vacuum anymore.
    “The school sent papers for you to sign,” I said, but the world was stuck on pause.
    Uncle Paul bobbed his head, not really agreeing or even listening. He turned his attention from Aunt Helen and Claire to some random spot out the window, as though the clouds would give him something to say.
    A nurse came in. She did the things you come to think of as routine while you’re in a hospital: checked Claire’s vitals, copied numbers off the machines by her bed, adjusted her pillows so Claire wasn’t lying in the same position anymore. This time she had a guy in a lab coat with her. He drew a tube of blood and scanned