Chapter 16 · The Bitter Dropper

Helen was still yelling "convulsion" when I went past her on the stairs.

Lie number one. Willa wasn't convulsing. She was flat on her back on the nursery rug with her socks half off and her eyes open but slow, breathing too deep, too even. A kid asleep underwater.

Lie number two: the gate. That reinforced gate at the top of the stairs is never open. Helen latches it behind her even when she's hauling a laundry basket.

I went down on my knees beside Willa and my side pulled — that hot wire under the dressing, the one that tells you it's been eleven hours on your feet — and I ignored it. Because her hand came up and hooked two of my fingers and held on.

"Okay. Hey. Look at me."

Her pupils were huge. I put the phone light across them. Slow to come down. Too slow. Pulse under my fingers: fifty-two, steady, strong. No clench in her jaw. No twitch in her hands. Her mouth slack, a little wet at the corner.

Sedated. Not seizing.

"Miss Pell." Helen had one hand braced on the doorframe, still catching her breath, all wounded dignity. "I told Mr.