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a bad reaction from mixing my antidepressants with alcohol. My husband found me unconscious on our bedroom floor when he got home from work last night.”
    “Then why do you say you don’t you know what happened?”
    “Because I don’t drink. I haven’t had a drink in years. This has to be some kind of big mistake. We don’t even keep any alcohol in the house.” She pulled her headband off and tossed it on the bed in frustration.
    I felt for her but couldn’t help but remember the hard partying Audrey of old. The same Audrey who I sat behind in science class senior year and who reeked of stale beer and weed on more than one occasion. Sitting behind her all those years ago, and bearing witness to a level of popularity only rivaled by a pop star, I never pictured her becoming the dumpy, plaid wearing, stay-at-home mom I was currently looking at.
    If I recalled correctly, I remembered overhearing her telling her fellow round table cronies more than once that she planned to model after high school. It’s no mystery why that plan didn’t work out since the modeling world isn’t real big on 5’ 3” models, at least not any that wear clothes. Of course I could have told her that back then but she didn’t ask me. I wondered if that’s why she was being treated for depression. Was there such a thing as Failed Model Syndrome?
    “Could you have accidentally had some alcohol?” I asked for lack of anything better to say.
    She thought hard for a minute and then buried her head in her hands and groaned. “No! It’s just not possible. I know not to mix alcohol with my prescriptions. I would never make that mistake. I know my husband probably thinks I’m lying but I swear I didn’t have a drink.” She started to cry and I handed her the box of tissues on the bedside table.
    “How long are they going to keep you in here?” I asked softly.
    She shrugged miserably and leaned back against the pillows, causing her tears to run down the side of her face.
    “Well, I’m going to leave now so you can get your rest. Is there anything you need before I go?” I figured my curiosity had been satisfied sufficiently.
    “Oh, I need my cell phone. Can you hand me my purse. It’s in the closet,” she said through her tears.
    I grabbed a large tan leather purse from the floor of the narrow closet and walked over to hand it to her. But in her weakened condition, she didn’t get a good enough grasp on her heavy purse and dropped it. It fell on the floor spilling some of its contents. She mumbled an expletive as I bent down to pick up everything. Amongst the wallet, brush, can of hair spray, box of wet wipes, and set of keys on a unicorn key chain, I spied something surprising. It was a half empty bottle of baby oil. Hadn’t baby oil been what Ms. Flack had slipped on last night? I looked at Audrey as I stuffed everything back into her purse. Her eyes were closed. Was she the one who put baby oil at the top of the cafeteria steps? It didn’t make any sense. Then I remembered that Audrey had arrived after Ms. Flack and me and couldn’t have put the baby oil on the steps. I realized how paranoid I was being. Because why in the world would Audrey want Ms. Flack, or anyone else, to fall down the steps?
    I handed Audrey her purse and headed out of her room, almost colliding with a nurse in green scrubs and a white lab coat. It was Audrey’s best friend and Carl’s ex-wife, Vanessa Brumfield. Vanessa was a nurse at Willow Memorial, though to be honest I was surprised she was still working. She’d inherited a large sum of money from her father when he died, money she only got because she ended her marriage to Carl. Her greedy behind must have spent it all. I stepped aside and held the door open for her. She gave me a dismissive look before walking past me into the room.
    “You’re welcome,” I said when it was obvious she wasn’t going to thank me. She rolled her eyes and flipped a piece of her long dark curly hair over her