Nobody had said oxycodone. Nolan did not know why he said it. He would think about that afterward too. It was a guess, and it was the kind of guess he was good at, the kind of guess that had made him a good detective in the years before he ran for sheriff: in hospice they started you on one thing and then they moved you to the next thing, and there was always a bottle of the first thing somewhere in the house.
Ancil did not answer right away. Then he said, "She was on oxycodone through the summer. They changed her over in September."
"What happened to the oxycodone?"
Ancil's right hand moved — not much, an inch, toward the front of the canvas coat, where the inside pocket was. It was the smallest movement. A man who had not spent thirty-one years watching hands would not have seen it.
Nolan saw it.
"Ancil," he said, "you have anything in your coat I ought to know about?"
"I have my wife's old medicine in my coat. I brought it to put in Mattie's box."
"Let me see it."
"Nolan," Mattie said, from the window.