A Marcus High graduate died from fentanyl poisoning. Her mom’s mission has taken her to the White House.
September 16, 2025
By Mary Beth Gahan
FLOWER MOUND, Texas - Like many parents, Jane Gray has a bumper sticker that broadcasts to the world a fact about her kid. It’s something she wants so badly for others to see that a purple banner is not only slapped to the back of her SUV, but also a door on the side.
There’s a picture of her daughter in the right corner of the rectangle. With long dirty blonde hair, the teen tosses a smile over her shoulder.
Next to her, white words break the mold.
“Fentanyl killed my child. PROTECT YOURS.”
Nicole Gray’s addiction spanned less than two years — from Marcus High School in north Flower Mound to rehab in Tennessee and, finally, a motel in Fort Worth — but the seeds were planted early. So were the signs, although her mom couldn’t see them until she looked back. Hindsight brings painful clarity. Now she’s on a grassroots mission to educate others about an epidemic killing America’s youth. It’s taken her all the way to the White House.
“Fentanyl is everywhere now. It's not just in pills. It's in cocaine, it's in heroin, it's in weed,” Jane said. “There's a mindset of, I'm raising my child right, we've gone to church, our neighborhood is nice, we have money, or we homeschool them. But nobody is immune.”
Nicole knew she was predisposed to addiction. Opioids took hold of her biological father at the height of the crisis spurred by Big Pharma. He died by suicide when she was 7 years old. Her mom went to work full-time and the family, including Nicole and her three brothers, moved to a mobile home park in Coppell, where the median household income is $144,000. The wound of her father’s death and stigma of where they lived was carved deep.
In the years after, they moved to Flower Mound and her mom remarried. Nicole went to Downing Middle School and Marcus High School. She found solace in connection with friends and family. She played front row outside on the volleyball team.
Then, less than a decade after losing a parent, she was tripped up again by another crisis not of her own doing. COVID-19 spread across the globe. Nicole spent the second half of her freshman year seeing classmates through a computer screen.
She started smoking weed in 10th grade — a biproduct of months in isolation. In September of her senior year, a friend introduced her to Percocet, knowing it was laced with fentanyl.
In those early months, Nicole would take a piece of foil, put a pill on top of it, and flick a lighter underneath. Once the pill melted, she’d use a straw to inhale the fumes.
Jane noticed.
The distinct burning smell would come and go. A whiff of it here and there. It was always near Nicole’s room. Fearing an impending fire, Jane called an electrician. He assured her nothing was out of the ordinary and the ceiling fan wasn’t about to combust. The wires were intact.
“Silly,” she said, grimacing as she recalled the story. A light word to describe the feeling that she should’ve seen the signs.
But Nicole was adept at hiding the truth.
“When you live in a home with an addict, the efficiency of an addict is to lie. They have to. It sustains the disease and they’re very good at it,” Jane said.
What was once supplied by a friend, now Nicole actively sought out. She ordered pills on Snapchat and had them delivered to the house. Jane could sense something different about her, but chalked it up to teenage moodiness.
For the entire school year, Nicole’s mom and stepdad were in the dark, until Nicole told a friend that she was so depressed that she was buying fentanyl online. One bit of truth and the lies started unraveling.
A client texted Jane, a licensed professional counselor, on the last day of school in May 2023 and told her he needed to see her. When he came in, though, he didn’t want to talk about himself. His daughter was the one Nicole told about her drug use.
At first, it was awkward for Jane; a client laying bare her daughter’s problem. But, now, she’s thankful that the girl had the courage to tell her dad. It gave Jane an opportunity to try to fix it.
She wasn’t the only kid in the town taking pills. That month, a Flower Mound 18-year-old pleaded guilty in federal court to conspiracy to possess with intent to distribute fentanyl. He was the source for another dealer who prosecutors said sold fentanyl to a 14-year-old who died. There were at least 12 juvenile overdoses in Flower Mound and Carrollton. Three of them were fatal.
Nicole went to an intensive outpatient program. She donned a red gown and received her high school diploma at a graduation ceremony for Marcus High School.
She was sober for 100 days. Then, her appearance became disheveled. Her clothing was put on with the intent of showing off, rather than covering up.
Another friend of Nicole’s sent Jane a Facebook message. He’d taken a picture of Nicole passed out in her car with foil next to her. He didn’t know what it meant, but figured it wasn’t meditating, as Nicole had told him she was doing.
“This kid was only 18 years old. What a hero,” Jane said. “He told me, ‘I know Nicole is going to be mad at me.’”
“It's scary to tell on your peers. I totally get that. But pick your scary: telling on your friend, or your friend dying? That's the reality.”
Jane was terrified herself. It was becoming clear this was a real problem, not just teenage experimentation. She employed the help of a fellow therapist to talk with Nicole. Rehab was non-negotiable.
Nicole spent time in Tennessee at an in-patient program for rehabilitation from drug use. After, she moved to a sober living home in Fort Worth. She was 19 years old and the next youngest in the house was 35. The oldest was 50. Jane was sure Nicole felt like “a total misfit.”
She was sober for a few more months before the bottom fell out.
Nicole relapsed on Wednesday, April 17, 2024 – the anniversary of her father’s death. She was immediately told to get her stuff and leave the sober living home.
The rule of getting kicked out is a “critical missing piece in our system,” Jane said.
“Especially when you're 19 years old and your brain is on drugs. To deal with the shame, what do you do?”
Nicole hid. She didn’t tell her parents. They weren’t required to be notified anyway – Nicole was an adult. Still, the director did give Jane a courtesy call on Friday. Jane immediately reached out to Nicole.
“Hey, come over,” she texted her. It happens. No big deal. I love you. Jane tried it all.
Nicole said no. When Jane issued an invitation on Saturday, the response was the same. Finally, on Sunday, Nicole agreed to come over for dinner.
Jane made her little girl’s favorite: chicken and dumplings.
Nicole came in carrying a milkshake. She’d taken a razor to her eyebrows and her clothes were disheveled.
“I knew when she walked in the door that somewhere in there was my daughter,” Jane said. “But who walked in the door was not her.”
They talked about rehab or more therapy. Rather, Jane did. Nicole said nothing worked for her. She wanted to leave that night and stay in a hotel in Fort Worth so she could go to work the next day. She booked a room for five nights. Jane insisted they at least get some pepper spray that she had at her office. She wanted to show Nicole the new place anyway.
When they got there, Nicole’s eyes cleared a bit. She told her mom she was proud of her. On the drive back to the house, Jane told Nicole she was scared for her.
“I don’t know what I’ll do if you die,” Jane said.
“Mom, I don't want to die,” Nicole admitted. “And I don't want to be a bad daughter.”
“I had her for that moment,” Jane said, wiping under her eyes. “God gave me like 6 minutes to where I was like, 'Ah, there you are.’”
Then the addiction took its grip on her again. Nicole wanted to get back home so she could leave.
On her way to Fort Worth, Nicole was driving erratically. Someone saw her and called the cops. She was pulled over by Flower Mound Police.
Bodycam footage shows her sitting on a curb in a gray sweatshirt and red pajama pants. Nicole wrings her hands as an officer describes what she’s found in her car.
“There’s a spoon in your purse,” the officer says in the video.
Nicole smiles and starts to explain herself.
“Oh yeah,” she says with a wave of her hand.
The officer cuts her off.
“There's a roll of tin foil, there's a burnt tin foil. Your eyes were pinpoint while I was talking to you,” she says. “They're still pinpoint, which is a sign of opioid use.”
Nicole looks close to tears as the officer tells her she can call someone to pick her up. She nods her head quickly in relief. She’s given a ticket for paraphernalia and a boyfriend swings by to get her.
Nicole went to work the next day. After, she went to Executive Inn on Benbrook Boulevard in Fort Worth with another man. They started smoking at 7:30 p.m. At some point, Nicole texted her mom, “I’m safe” with a heart. Usually the emoji was purple or pink. This time, it was blue.
Jane was driving to work the following morning when her phone rang. The caller ID said “Tarrant County.” Despite usually answering all calls, she let it go to voicemail. The person called again. She didn’t answer.
She saw her initial client, then another. When she walked out of her office to get the third appointment for the day, her husband was standing there.
She looked at him.
“Nicole?”
He nodded.
“She’s gone,” he mouthed.
He didn’t need to say anything else. Jane could read his posture.
In the days after, Jane found it hard to stand on her own. She hardly ate or drank. She slept even less.
From her experience as a mental health professional, Jane knew she had to find a purpose; to do something good with the pain. But she couldn’t let it overtake her. She had to stay herself. She put the bumper stickers on her car as a start.
Since then, opportunity has sought her out.
About a month after Nicole died, a woman messaged her on Facebook. Her son suffered a fatal overdosed at the same motel in the weeks after Nicole passed. It turned out that 9 people had died there from drug overdoses since 2020. Together, she and Jane went to City of Fort Worth to get a nuisance abatement for the hotel.
Jane also approached the Town of Flower Mound and town council about how the traffic stop ended in a ticket, rather than an arrest.
“Why didn't Flower Mound do more. Why were they so passive?” Jane asked. “At what point do you have enough information to say, ‘You know what? We have to take you in because this what is best for you.’”
Melissa Demmitt, a spokeswoman for the town, said in all traffic stops where alcohol or drug use is suspected, “officers investigate and take the appropriate actions based on the circumstances.”
“It probably sounds awful but there may have been a little white privilege there. Pretty little white girl. No previous history,” Jane said. “I think that's sad. I think there's a lot of things that can be learned from all of this.”
As evidence of progress, Jane pointed to the town’s Substance Abuse and Mental Health Task Force that first met in January and had additional meetings on June 25 and Sept. 10.
The task force includes representatives from the town, Lewisville ISD, Argyle ISD, Denton County MHMR, Winning the Fight, and Valley Creek Church. One change implemented so far is there are now Narcan kits in public Town of Flower Mound buildings.
As Jane drove around north Texas, the bumper sticker did its job. At least five people contacted her as a result.
“I’ve been followed home,” she said with a laugh.
She’s been on Life Today, a Christian talk show based in Euless. Jane was also a guest on The Mom’s View, a YouTube show.
Another mom who was on that show got in touch with her one Monday in July. President Donald Trump was signing the HALT Fentanyl Act at the White House on Wednesday. Did Jane want to come?
The HALT Act permanently bumped all fentanyl-related substances up to a Schedule I drug, meaning they have no medical use and can’t be distributed or dispensed. It gives law enforcement more tools when coming across pills in the field.
Jane stood behind the president as he put pen to paper and made it a law. He shook hands with the parents. Jane thought he came off as friendly.
“He appeared to be very genuine in his regret for what happened to us,” she said.
The president is “always moved when he has the opportunity with parents who have lost their children,” the White House said in a statement to North Texas Sun.
“The entire Trump Administration will continue battling illicit drugs like fentanyl and will not rest until our communities are free from this poison,” Abigail Jackson, deputy press security, wrote.
On a high from that experience and feeling like she was making strides in battling the epidemic, Jane posted photos on Facebook of her standing behind President Trump.
The comments came immediately.
“Well that’s embarrassing.”
“Anyone that supports Trump gets what they deserve.”
Another dad replied to Jane’s post about the backlash.
“If they had a child like I do, who almost died twice from addiction, they would crawl on their knees to the White House, no matter who the President is,” Greg Tober wrote.
For now, Jane stands – for Nicole’s memory and those who suffer from addiction. She takes comfort in the short time she had with her youngest, down to the last night she hugged her.
“At least I was able to tell her, ‘You're not a bad daughter.’”
In Flower Mound, her parents have put up Nicole’s Fairy Tree where visitors can place an ornament on its branches during the holidays to honor someone they know who died from fentanyl poisoning. Year-round, there’s a box with chalk that can be used to make art on the sidewalk to bring awareness for mental health and addiction. It can be found on Google Maps.