Chapter 11 · Locked in the Dispensary

The deadbolt clicked into the strike plate with a heavy, metallic crunch.

I didn't turn around. I didn't have to. You don't need eyes on Owen Hale to know he's in the room—the air just thins out until your ribs start to ache.

"Willa's alone upstairs," I said.

"The stair gate is latched. Mrs. Vasquez is sitting outside the door with a book." His voice hit the back of my neck from three feet off. Low, level, and entirely too close. "My daughter's fine. You're the one on thin ice."

The dispensary was basically a cedar-lined walk-in. Shelves floor to ceiling. Gauze, brown glass bottles, yellowed paper tape, iodine that smelled like an open hospital drain. A bare bulb dangled on a yellowed cord overhead. No window. Solid oak door.

I turned slow. My left flank pulled hard enough to make my vision white out for a beat, but I kept my face dead blank.

Owen leaned against the shelf, arms crossed over his chest. Suit jacket gone. White shirt sleeves shoved to his elbows. Helen's blood smeared the cuff on his right wrist—