Free Addiction by G. H. Ephron

Olivia’s shoulder.
    Olivia flinched. She tilted her head and looked at Daphne without expression.
    â€œPlease, Olivia,” Daphne coaxed, holding out her hand. Olivia seemed to shrink from it.
    I dialed. The phone rang once.
    â€œGive me the gun,” Daphne said, her voice steady.
    Olivia looked at the gun, as if seeing it for the first time. Her fingers tightened around the barrel and the gun wavered.
    The phone rang again.
    With what seemed like extraordinary presence of mind, Daphne took off her sweater, wrapped it around her hand, and took hold
of the butt of the gun. With her other hand, Daphne pried loose Olivia’s fingers. When she had the gun, Daphne stood, stepped over, and set it on the floor beside Channing.
    Security picked up after the fourth ring. “This is Dr. Zak,” I said. My voice sounded calm. “I’m in 407, the Drug and Alcohol Unit. There’s been”—Daphne coughed and looked at me expectantly—“there’s been an accident. Dr. Temple is dead. Call the police”—I felt my voice breaking up—“and come right away.”
    I hung up before they could ask any questions. I closed my eyes but opened them immediately. The horror in the room was preferable to the memory of Kate that came roaring back to me, her throat slit, her life’s blood spilled on the cold cement floor of her studio.
    â€œThey’re on their way,” I said.
    I steadied the tremor in my shoulders. I tried to focus on the top of the desk—the phone, the computer, a neat pile of purple file folders, the gleaming metal letter opener, its handle engraved with an elegant Gothic C, a glass paperweight with a miniature bouquet of glass flowers entombed inside, an empty white porcelain mug with the blue-and-white Acu-Med logo.
    A beep from the computer cut the silence. Olivia’s head jerked up. I rotated the laptop around to face us. Fat black words scrolled across a brilliant red background. “Can’t live with myself. I’m so sorry.”
    I touched the mouse. Instantly, the message disappeared, replaced by a sky-blue background, white clouds, and a white rectangle with the message You have new mail .

    From the hall came the heavy sound of feet. A security guard arrived. The heavyset African American had a fist-size ring of keys jingling at his waist, his walkie-talkie squawking static. He scanned the room. When he saw Channing, he approached gingerly. Dealing with gunshot victims isn’t exactly standard operating procedure for our security personnel. He touched her neck. Then he unhooked
the walkie-talkie and spoke into it. I caught the words ambulance and police .
    â€œHas anyone touched anything?” he asked.
    â€œI used the phone,” I said.
    The guard glanced at Olivia, then raised his eyebrows to me in a question.
    â€œDr. Temple’s daughter,” I said.
    â€œPoor kid,” he replied. “She wasn’t here when it—?”
    â€œNo, no,” Daphne rushed in with the answer. “Thank heavens.”
    â€œI think we should step outside and wait,” the security guard said.
    Daphne crouched alongside Olivia and put her arm around her. Olivia pulled away. “Come on. Let’s go outside and wait for the police,” Daphne said.
    Daphne talked to her quietly and stroked her head. Olivia was dry-eyed, in shock, her face pale. She stared at her mother’s lifeless body, then at me. Daphne pulled her to her feet and guided her from the room. Olivia submitted, stiff-legged. I followed them into the hall.
    A few minutes later, I heard sirens approaching. Soon after that, there were footsteps on the stairs. The security guard met the two uniformed police officers and my old friend Detective Sergeant Joseph MacRae as they emerged from the stairs. MacRae, whose compact, powerful frame would have made better sense in jeans and a sweatshirt, wore a brown suit that puddled a bit at the ankle. His red