Chapter 17 · Stripped of Keys

The vial was still warm from my palm when Owen rolled it between his fingers under the nursery bulb.

Willa had four cold knuckles hooked into my collar. She wasn't letting go. She never lets go when the house turns sharp.

"Explain." Owen didn’t look at me. He looked at Helen.

"A mix-up with the evening tray." Helen smoothed her apron down, slow, like she was pressing out wrinkles with a flatiron. "These things happen, Mr. Hale. Especially when an outsider gets inside a child's medicine chest."

I let out a laugh. It came out rough. "Say that again slower. I want to hear how you talk yourself to sleep."

"Ruth." Owen's tone was an iron latch dropping into place. "You shoved a bottle in my hand. Talk."

I pressed my free hand flat against the dresser so he wouldn't catch the tremor. "Seven o'clock tray. Same silver, same folded napkin. Except the dropper bottle had a factory seal on glass we opened Tuesday. And the batch number on the label didn't match the pharmacy slip in the drawer. So I cracked it."

"And?"

"Smells like a dentist's office. Sweet up front, chemical rot underneath.