Izzy switched calls. "Yeah?"
"The Chief’s not answering, so I figured I’d try you. Coroner's report just came through on Brad Houzer," Graceline said without preamble. "That prescription bottle at the scene? The oxycodone was laced with fentanyl."
"Street fentanyl?"
"That's the interesting part. Doc says it's pharmaceutical grade. The kind you'd get from pain patches, not street drugs. Very pure, very lethal when mixed with oxy and alcohol."
Izzy's mind raced. "Who has access to medical-grade fentanyl patches?"
"Anyone with chronic pain issues and a good doctor. Back injuries, post-surgical pain, cancer patients..."
"Thanks, Graceline." Izzy hung up and immediately tried to call her mother. The call went straight to voicemail—again. Her chest tightened with familiar mom guilt. Her baby was safe, she knew that. But knowing and feeling were different things.
She tried Wilson instead.
"Your girl's fine," he answered without preamble. "Teaching her knots while her abuela makes enough tamales to feed an army. Phone's been sketchy—mountain interference."
"Can I?—"
"Tomorrow," Wilson said gently. "The less contact now, the safer. She knows you love her."
The line went dead. Izzy stared at the phone, throat tight. Two more days until the pageant. Two more days to solve this.
Itchy to get answers, Izzy texted Kenji and Zara a quick case update, and added another request.
Any way to trace which of our suspects had access to pharmaceutical grade fentanyl?
Twenty minutes later, Cory was back, and they sat comparing notes. The evidence against Tom kept piling up—his signatures on inspections, his jacket at the hardware store, his credit card purchasing accelerants.
And fentanyl patches, it turned out.
Though she and Kenji were still tracing the number that texted Izzy, Zara had dug up intel on the fentanyl in mere minutes.
Zara: nothing prescribed via legit provider for SNB, either of the Osgood’s, or any of the Mountain Air volunteers. Only hit was for Tom Morrison. One year’s worth of patches. Expired 10 months ago. All available scripts filled at local pharmacy.
"So they could be Tom's patches," Izzy said slowly. "But expired. Would they still be potent?"
"Absolutely. Fentanyl doesn't lose much strength," Cory said. "Maybe ten, fifteen percent. Still deadly when extracted and mixed with oxy."
“This feels too pat,” Izzy said.
Cory grunted. “Sometimes lemonade is just lemonade.”
They sat in silence for a moment, then Izzy grabbed a legal pad. "Okay, let's think this through. If Tom's being framed, who could do it?"
"Someone with access to his things," Cory started. "His jacket, his credit cards, his medication."
They brainstormed—cleaning service (the Morrisons didn't use one), medical professionals (but Tom saw them at clinics), contractors (none recently according to Cory's questions).
"So we're back to Tom himself," Cory said reluctantly. "An older man, showing signs of confusion, under stress from the Mountain Angel situation..."
"Maybe the stress triggered something?" Izzy suggested. "Breakdown of some kind? He genuinely doesn't remember things, but he's still doing them?"
"Dissociative episodes. It happens." Cory rubbed his face. "The guilt about not catching the sabotage earlier, the pressure from all sides..."
"Poor Janet," Izzy murmured. "Watching him fall apart like this."
"She's being incredibly supportive, considering." Cory's tone held admiration. "Most spouses would be in denial, but she's trying to help us even though it's killing her."
