Chapter 22: The Morning After the Overdose
The Narcan worked fast.
Emma had found it in the bathroom cabinet, exactly where Jim said it would be—a small orange box tucked behind a bottle of Advil and a half-empty tube of toothpaste. She'd grabbed it and run back to the guest room, her bare feet slapping against the marble, her heart hammering somewhere in her throat.
Jim had taken it from her without a word. He'd knelt beside Caron, tipped her head back, and pressed the nozzle into her nostril. One spray. Then the other.
For three seconds, nothing happened.
Then Caron's chest heaved. Her eyes flew open. She gasped like a woman surfacing from deep water, her hands clawing at the air, her legs kicking against the floor. Maggie grabbed her shoulders and held her down, whispering something Emma couldn't hear—something soft, something soothing, something that sounded like a prayer.
Jim sat back on his heels. His face was blank. Not calm—blank. The way a surgeon's face goes blank when they're deciding whether to cut.
"Breathe," he said. "You're okay. Breathe."
Caron breathed. Ragged, wet, desperate. But she breathed.
Emma stood in the doorway, frozen. The orange box was still in her hand, and her fingers were trembling, and she couldn't stop staring at Caron's face—the gray pallor, the sweat-soaked hair, the way her lips kept moving like she was trying to say something but couldn't find the words.
"What happened?" Caron whispered.
"You overdosed," Maggie said. Her voice was flat. "What the fuck do you think happened?"
"I don't—I didn't—"
"You didn't what? You didn't shoot up alone in the guest room while the rest of us were downstairs? You didn't nearly fucking die?"
Caron closed her eyes. Tears leaked out from under her lashes, cutting tracks through the mascara smeared on her cheeks.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Maggie stood up. She walked to the window and stood there with her back to the room, her arms crossed, her shoulders shaking. Emma couldn't tell if she was crying or trying not to.
Jim stayed on the floor. He looked at Caron for a long time—thirty seconds, maybe more—and then he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.
"We'll talk in the morning," he said. "Right now, you need to sleep."
"I can't sleep."
"You can. I'll stay with you."
He looked up at Emma. His eyes were tired, but steady.
"Get some water. And a blanket from the hall closet. The cashmere one."
Emma nodded. She set the Narcan on the dresser and left the room, her legs moving automatically, her mind somewhere else entirely.
The hall closet was stuffed with linens—sheets, towels, comforters in every color. She found the cashmere blanket on the top shelf, cream-colored and impossibly soft, and pulled it down. It smelled like cedar and lavender. It smelled like money.
When she got back to the guest room, Caron was sitting up. Maggie had helped her onto the bed, and Jim was beside her, his arm around her shoulders. They looked like a family portrait—the kind you'd see in a magazine, perfectly composed, perfectly broken.
Emma handed Jim the blanket. He draped it over Caron's legs and tucked the edges around her feet.
"Thank you," he said. To Emma. Like she'd done something important.
She didn't feel important. She felt like a witness. Like someone who'd stumbled into a room where something terrible had happened and was now trying to figure out where to stand.
"Should I go?" she asked.
"No." Caron's voice was hoarse but clear. "Stay. Please."
Emma looked at Jim. He nodded.
She sat down on the floor, her back against the wall, and watched the three of them—Jim and Caron on the bed, Maggie still at the window—and waited for whatever came next.
---
The night didn't end so much as dissolve.
Caron slept in fits. She'd drift off for twenty minutes, then wake with a gasp, her hands reaching for something that wasn't there. Jim stayed beside her the whole time, his fingers laced through hers, his thumb moving in slow circles on her palm.
Maggie smoked. One cigarette after another, each one lit from the ember of the last. The window was cracked open, and the smoke curled out into the dark, and the ocean kept up its endless rhythm below.
Emma dozed in the corner. She didn't mean to—she was too wired, too raw—but somewhere around three in the morning, her body gave up. She woke at five to find Maggie standing over her, shaking her shoulder.
"Sunrise," Maggie said. "Come on."
They went out to the terrace. The sky was still dark, but the horizon had begun to lighten—a thin band of gray, then pink, then gold. The ocean caught the light and threw it back, and for a moment, Emma forgot everything that had happened.
Maggie handed her a mug. Coffee, black, spiked with vodka, the way she'd learned Emma liked it.
"Where's Jim?"
"Still with Caron. She's awake now. They're talking."
Emma sipped the coffee. It was hot and bitter and it burned her tongue and the vodka burned on the way down, the way she liked it.
"Talking about what?"
"Vincent. Probably."
Maggie lit another cigarette. Her hands were shaking—just slightly, just enough to notice.
"Who's Vincent?"
Maggie didn't answer right away. She smoked, and stared at the ocean, and smoked some more.
"Someone she met a few months ago," she said finally. "A dealer. Young. Pretty. Dangerous."
"And she's been—"
"Fucking him. Yeah. And buying from him. And telling him things."
Emma's stomach dropped. "What kind of things?"
"Things about Jim. About the house. About who comes and goes."
Maggie took a long drag. The ember flared orange in the gray light.
"He's been using her. And she's been letting him. Because she's an addict, and addicts do stupid shit, and Caron—" She stopped. Pressed her lips together. "Caron's always been the weakest of us."
Emma didn't know what to say. She looked out at the ocean, at the gold spreading across the water, and thought about John. About how she'd left him. About how easy it had been.
"Jim's going to handle it," Maggie said. "That's what he does."
"Handle it how?"
Maggie looked at her. Those green eyes, sharp as broken glass.
"You don't want to know."
---
Caron came out at sunrise.
She walked slowly, carefully, like a woman learning to use her legs again. The cashmere blanket was wrapped around her shoulders, and her hair was still tangled, and her face was pale as bone. But she was upright. She was alive.
Jim followed a few steps behind. He'd showered—his hair was damp, his shirt fresh—and his face was calm. But there was something different about him this morning. Something still.
He sat down at the table and gestured for Caron to sit beside him. She did, lowering herself into the chair like she might break if she moved too fast.
Maggie poured herself a coffee and added a generous splash of vodka. She didn't offer any to anyone else.
Emma stayed where she was, at the edge of the terrace, her back against the glass door. She was still wearing last night's clothes—the sundress, wrinkled and stained, the underwear underneath. She felt grimy and hollow and very, very young.
"I need to tell you something," Caron said.
Her voice was raw. Every word sounded like it hurt.
Jim didn't respond. He just waited.
"I met him at a party. In April. At the Getty House. He was—" She paused, searching for the word. "He was beautiful. Young. Maybe twenty-five. I knew what he was right away. The way he moved. The way he watched people. I knew."
She took a breath. It rattled in her chest.
"His name is Vincent. He sells Blue Ghost. He's the one who introduced me to it. He said it was better than heroin. Cleaner. No come-down. He was right."
"How much?" Jim asked.
"Money?"
"Everything."
Caron looked down at her hands. They were trembling, even now, even after the Narcan, even after hours of sleep.
"I've given him maybe two hundred thousand. Over the past few months. Cash. From the accounts you don't monitor."
Jim's jaw tightened. But he didn't interrupt.
"And the information?"
She closed her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek.
"Who's here. When. The names of your business partners. The address of the house in Malibu. The security codes."
"For what purpose?"
"I don't know. He never told me. He just asked, and I answered, and I didn't think—"
"You didn't think."
"I was high. I was always high. He made me feel—"
"Like what?"
She opened her eyes. Met his gaze.
"Like I mattered. Like I was still worth something."
The words hung in the air. Emma felt them land in her chest like stones.
Maggie stubbed out her cigarette. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.
Jim stood up. He walked to the edge of the terrace and looked out at the ocean, at the gold light, at the world beyond.
"Where is he now?"
"I don't know. I don't even know his real name. Vincent is—it's just what he told me."
"Do you have a number? An address? Anything?"
Caron shook her head. "No. He always found me. I never knew where he came from."
Jim turned around. His face was still calm. But his eyes were cold.
"You've been compromised. And that means the house has been compromised. And that means everyone in it is at risk."
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fix this."
He pulled his phone from his pocket. Dialed a number. Waited.
"Marcus. It's Jim. I need you to come to the house. Now."
He paused, listening.
"Yes. Bring the car. And the other thing."
He hung up and looked at Maggie.
"Pack a bag. Enough for a few weeks."
Maggie didn't argue. She just nodded and walked into the house, her robe trailing behind her.
"Caron—" Jim started.
"I'm coming with you."
"No."
"Jim—"
"No." His voice was hard. Final. "You're staying here. You're going to rest. And when you're better, you're going to tell me everything else you've told him. Every detail. Every word. Do you understand?"
Caron nodded. Her face crumpled, but she didn't cry.
Jim looked at Emma.
"You stay with her. Don't let her out of your sight."
Emma nodded. She didn't know what else to do.
Jim walked toward the house. His footsteps were steady, unhurried, the footsteps of a man who'd made a decision. He stopped at the door and looked back.
"If anyone comes to the house—anyone you don't know—you call me. Immediately."
"Who would come?" Emma asked.
He didn't answer. He just disappeared into the house, and a moment later, she heard the garage door open, and an engine turn over, and then the sound of his car—low and smooth and expensive—fading down the driveway.
Maggie came back out a few minutes later. She was dressed now—black jeans, black tank top, black boots. She had a duffel bag over her shoulder and a cigarette in her hand.
"He's going to find him," Emma said.
Maggie lit the cigarette. Took a drag. Blew the smoke out slow.
"Yeah."
"And then what?"
Maggie looked at her. That same look from before—sharp, knowing, tired.
"Then we wait."
She walked past Emma and into the house, and Emma heard the front door open and close, and then she was alone on the terrace with Caron.
The sun was fully up now. The ocean was blue and endless and indifferent. Caron sat in her chair, wrapped in the cashmere blanket, and stared at nothing.
Emma sat down across from her.
"Are you okay?"
Caron laughed. It was a terrible sound—broken and hollow and full of teeth.
"No," she said. "I'm not okay. I'm a junkie who sold out the man who loved me for a drug. I'm a liability. I'm a risk. I'm everything I swore I'd never be."
Emma didn't know what to say. She was twenty-four years old, and she'd left her safe life for this, and she was sitting across from a woman who'd just tried to kill herself with the same Blue Ghost that was still humming in Emma's veins.
But she was here. She'd stayed. And that meant something.
"You're still alive," Emma said. "That counts."
Caron looked at her. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Caron reached out and took Emma's hand. Her fingers were cold and thin and fragile.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For staying."
Emma squeezed her hand. The sun was warm on her face. The ocean breathed. Somewhere on the Pacific Coast Highway, Jim was driving toward something, and Maggie was following, and the house was quiet and waiting.
And Emma was part of it now. For better or worse.
She stayed.