In the hallway, I leaned against the wall and forced myself to breathe. In for four. Out for six. Again. My hands were shaking so hard I had to press them against my thighs.
Then the memory hit me, sharp and unavoidable.
Dad’s voice on the phone. Did you eat any.
Evelyn screaming. How much did Brandon eat.
Melissa crying. Please say you ate some.
They had not been worried about calories.
They had been taking inventory.
They had been calculating risk.
They had been terrified the poison did not reach its intended target.
I made myself stand up straight and walked to the nurse’s station.
“I need to speak with whoever is handling toxicology and law enforcement coordination,” I said. My voice sounded calm. Clinical. It did not sound like me, but it worked.
A nurse studied my face, then nodded. “We already contacted police,” she said. “They are on their way. Sit here.”
I sat. I did not feel the chair beneath me.
When the officer arrived, he was young, polite, and careful with his tone in that way people were when children were involved. He took my statement. He asked about the chocolates. He asked who lived in the house. He asked whether anyone else had reason to harm the children.
Harm the children. The phrase made my stomach flip.
“I do not know what their plan was,” I said. “But I know they only panicked when I told them I did not eat the chocolates.”
The officer’s eyes sharpened. “That is important,” he said. “Do you have that recorded?”
“No,” I admitted.
The words made something in me go very still.
I was a forensic accountant. I lived by documentation. I lived by proof.
I could not undo what happened, but I could make sure the truth did not slip away into plausible deniability.
That night, after the doctor told me Leighton and Matteo were stable but still critical, and after Brandon drifted back into a medicated sleep, I drove home in a fog.
I did not go to bed.
I tore through my kitchen like a person searching a crime scene. The chocolates were gone, eaten. But the packaging was not.
