Page 83 of If You're Reading This

The pharmacy was cramped but clean, with rows of over-the-counter medications and health supplies leading back to a raised counter where prescriptions were filled.

Behind the counter, Logan spotted a man in his thirties with thinning brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He was hunched over a computer screen, but his head snapped up the moment they approached.

Thankfully, there were no other customers in line, and if anyone worked in the pharmacy with him, they were currently gone.

“Can I help you?” His voice cracked slightly, and Logan noticed his hands trembling as he set down a pill bottle.

“Tom Zimmerman?” Logan showed his badge. “I’m State Trooper Logan. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The color drained from Zimmerman’s face. “Questions about what?”

Logan studied the man’s reaction. He was clearly terrified, but why?

“We’re investigating the disappearance of Morgan Riley,” he said. “Someone mentioned to us that you’d expressed interest in her work.”

“I—” Zimmerman’s eyes darted toward the front door, then back to them. “I never . . . I mean, I might have mentioned her photography once or twice. But I hardly know her.”

“Relax, Mr. Zimmerman. We’re just trying to get a complete picture of people who knew Morgan or had contact with her.” Andi’s voice was gentle, but Logan could see she’d noticed the man’s obvious anxiety too.

Zimmerman wiped his palms on his white pharmacist’s coat. “I really don’t know anything that would help you.”

Logan leaned against the counter. “Why don’t you tell us about your interactions with Morgan? When did you first meet her?”

“At the gallery. Last fall, I think. There was an opening for her latest exhibition.” Zimmerman’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I . . . I bought one of her smaller prints. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Logan pressed. “The person we spoke with seemed to think there was more to it than that.”

Something flickered across Zimmerman’s face—fear, guilt. Logan couldn’t tell which.

But this man knew more than he was letting on.

“Look, Mr. Zimmerman.” Logan kept his voice steady. “We’re not here to judge you or get you in trouble. We just need to find Morgan. If there’s something you’re not telling us . . .”

Zimmerman’s composure cracked. His shoulders sagged, and he looked around the empty pharmacy as if checking for eavesdroppers.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I can’t . . . if this gets out, I’ll lose everything. My license, my job, my family.”

Andi stepped closer. “If what gets out, Tom?”

For a long moment, Zimmerman stared at his hands. Then, so quietly Logan had to strain to hear, he said, “Someone’s been blackmailing me.”

Logan’s pulse quickened. “Blackmailing you how?”

“Three months ago, I made a mistake. A big one.” Zimmerman’s voice was shaking now. “There was this prescription for a cancer patient—high-dose morphine. I . . . I skimmed some. Just a little. My back’s been killing me for years, and I couldn’t afford physical therapy, and I thought just once . . .”

“And someone found out,” Andi said.

Zimmerman nodded miserably. “He had photos. Security camera footage from the pharmacy. Said he’d send it to the state board if I didn’t do what he asked.”

“What did he ask for?” Logan’s voice was sharp now.

“Sedatives. Midazolam, lorazepam, ketamine. Small amounts, nothing that would be noticed in inventory, but . . .” Zimmerman looked up at them with desperate eyes. “I know it’s wrong. I know I should have just confessed, taken the consequences, but I can’t lose everything.”

“When was the last time you gave him drugs?” Logan interrupted.

“Two days ago. He wanted enough midazolam to . . . to put someone out for hours.” Zimmerman’s face went white as the implication hit him. “Oh no . . . you think he used it on that photographer? On Morgan?”

Logan and Andi exchanged glances.