Free Deceptions of the Heart by Denise Moncrief

underscored his criticism.
    “No, I shouldn’t, should I?” My hands gripped the back of a barstool. I needed the remainder of the conversation to finish its merciless unwinding so I’d know how shaky the ground was under my size six feet. “I was also taking an anticonvulsant. Did he tell you that?” Anson lifted one eyebrow. “Whitaker’s name is on the labels, but he denies prescribing them for me. I came here to confront Sudha because I suspect this is her doing. I told you—”
    “Do you still have the bottles?”
    I raised my chin. “Yes.”
    “Can I see them?”
    I pulled them from my purse. He held his hand out and I hesitated. Can I trust him? I stared into his eyes and dropped the bottles onto his outstretched hand.
    He seemed relieved until he examined them. “These two medications should never be taken together. And neither of them should be taken with cyclosporine.”
    How does he know so much about drug interactions? Should I suspect Anson of tampering with my meds instead of Sudha? Or maybe they’re co-conspirators.
    “I wasn’t taking cyclosporine.”
    “You have to take cyclosporine. It’s not optional.” His tone fell flat, landing between us with a dull thud.
    I refused to go on the defensive. “Dr. Patton said my blood levels look good. He wrote me a new prescription for Sandimmune. I’ve been taking it as prescribed. I should be all right—no harm done.”
    “No harm done?” He puffed his cheeks out. “You saw Patton?” I nodded. “He’s a good man. He’ll take care of you.” He shifted his attention back to the bottles in his hand. “They’re empty.”
    “I flushed the pills down the toilet before I left for California. Did you know Sudha kept them in her bathroom? Why were they in her cabinet instead of mine? And where did she get them if she didn’t get them from me? And why wasn’t I dealing with my own meds? Wouldn’t I fill my own prescriptions?”
    “You ask a lot of questions—questions I would think you would know the answers to,” he pointed out.
    “But I don’t.”
    “Sudha kept your medications in her room because she dispensed them to you. She was your caretaker.” He stood and closed in inches from me, looking down at me, his face unreadable, almost tranquil, as if we were discussing the weather or what we were having for dinner.
    “My caretaker? She didn’t take care of me. She was the housekeeper.” I shifted from one foot to the other.
    “No, she was hired as your caretaker. You’ve never been inclined to deal with your own meds before. In fact, you’ve never been inclined to deal with much of anything so she took on the housekeeping as well.” His comments had turned from even to sarcastic.
    “She said she kept them in her room for my protection .” The edge in my voice cut with neat, clean slashes.
    He flinched and his face reddened as if I’d slapped him, hard and without merit. “Are you accusing me of messing with your meds? Because that’s preposterous.” He rolled the bottles in his hand. “Cristobal Pharmaceuticals doesn’t manufacture either of these drugs.”
    Cristobal Pharmaceuticals. Drug manufacturing. A family-owned company. Explains the wealth. Explains his knowledge of prescription drugs.
    His absolute denial of any wrongdoing rang true.
    “I’m not accusing you of anything.” I shifted, bracing myself for his counterattack. He nodded and puckered his mouth to acknowledge my retreat. “Did Sudha think I was suicidal? Did she think I might overdose…on purpose?”
    “You know enough to know you can’t take these drugs. Are you trying to kill yourself?”
    “Why are you accusing me of this? I haven’t taken anything she’s given me since the party. I thought she might be messing with me.”
    “You should recognize these drugs when you see them.” I detected no dissembling. His comment added another layer to the mystery, produced more questions.
    “Should I?” My question addressed not only his accusation