He began pulling things out, laying them on the counter one by one.

A silver compact mirror.

A set of heavy brass keys.

A pack of mints.

Then, he reached deeper into the zippered side pocket.

He pulled out a small, clear plastic baggie.

Inside the baggie were dozens of small, peach-colored pills.

“What are these?” the officer asked, holding the baggie up to the fluorescent light.

I looked at the pills, then at the empty bottle in the first officer’s hand.

“Those are Megan’s pills,” I said, a wave of nausea hitting me.

“She emptied the bottle.”

“She hid them in her bag so Megan couldn’t find them.”

The officer compared the peach pills in the baggie to the description on the white bottle.

“The markings match,” the officer said, his face hardening.

“Why did you empty the prescription into a plastic bag, ma’am?”

My mother didn’t answer.

She stood perfectly still, her chin tilted upward.

“She wanted her to get sick,” I said, the truth finally fully crystalizing in my mind.

“She’s been staying here for three days, pretending to help us.”