Page 92 of Don't Say a Word

“I’mreallysorry.”

“You won’t know the time or the place when I enact my retribution,” she said.

“I deserve it.”

“I’mnevergoing to live this down,” Josie moaned. “Anyway, I was held over and am still at the station, but I dug around and have some details about the dead girl.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Ireallyappreciate it.”

“Stop kissing up, it’s not going to help,” Josie muttered. “So, she was identified as Megan Osterman, nineteen, Caucasian, five foot four, ninety pounds.”

“Petite,” I said.

“Underweight, malnourished, habitual drug user. Died of fentanyl poisoning.”

“You have the ME’s report?”

“Yep, it’s attached to the police report. Showed signs of long-term heroin abuse.”

“Heroin, not fentanyl?”

“Over the last several years, dealers have been lacing heroin and other illegal drugs with fentanyl, which is cheap, in order to increase the high and their profit. Almost every drug bought on the street these days has traces of fentanyl, which is increasing accidental overdose deaths.”

“Do you have an address for Megan?”

“She lived with her mother, Corinne Osterman. I’ll text you the address. Only a few blocks from where she was found. It waspretty cut-and-dried. DEB took the case, Detective Ian Solomon. Don’t know him.”

“Why would DEB take it? Are they still investigating?”

“No signs of foul play, but let’s see...” Josie clicked on her keyboard. “Okay... yeah. She had a fanny pack with packaged heroin, and tests found it contained a specific fentanyl compound they’d seen before in several OD deaths, so they took the case. Probably as part of a larger investigation. There’s a DEA number attached as well, so it’s a joint investigation.”

“Are they actively investigating her death?”

“No,” Josie said. “They took the case because the drugs found on her body may connect with another investigation. You’d have to talk to DEB about that, it’s not in this report. Unlike Elijah, Megan is a clear overdose of a known drug addict. Interviews with her mother reveal that she tried to get her into rehab multiple times, going back to high school. Her mother didn’t want to kick her out, but also didn’t know how to help her. It’s a sad story, but unfortunately common.”

I didn’t know how Megan fit into Elijah’s death, but I knew in my gut that somehow she did. Then I had another thought.

“Do you know if she went to Sun Valley?” I asked.

“I don’t have that information.”

I had the yearbooks in my car; I needed to go through them with a fine-toothed comb. Based on her address, Megan had most likely been a student at Sun Valley. Elijah... Megan... Lena. One more piece of a puzzle where I still couldn’t see the whole picture. But if Megan had been a student at the same time Bradford was dealing, it was the best lead I had—thin as it was.

“I gotta go,” I said to Josie.

“Wait! How does this connect to Elijah? Did they know each other?”

“I’m going to find out. Bye.” I ended the call before she asked more questions.

I brought my glass up to the counter and put forty dollarsunder it. Scotty never charged me for beer—the Flannigans didn’t either—but the money would cover the sliders, Jessie’s drink, and give him a decent tip.

I went to my car, turned on my dome light, and flipped through the two yearbooks Angie had brought me. Megan Osterman was a junior when Elijah and Angie were freshmen. She looked young and sweet, not a strung-out addict. What had happened in the three years between when she was this kid with a future until she turned into a habitual user who died in an alley?

I wished I’d asked Angie for more yearbooks. I would have liked to have seen what Megan looked like her senior year, after she started using. Would her decline into addiction be obvious, or something she’d been able to hide?

I remembered the anonymous call to Phoenix PD, about how the police believed the call was made by a girl on the softball team. I flipped to the sports section of the yearbook, thinking I’d uncover something big that would connect all these events.

No such luck—Megan Osterman hadn’t played softball. Just to be diligent, I picked up the yearbook from Megan’s sophomore year, before Elijah and Angie were in high school. I looked at her picture again, younger, smiling, happy. Thinking that she was now dead was damn depressing.