"The dose was controlled," Wesley continues. "Enough to cause severe symptoms—the vomiting, the blood—but not enough to kill. Expert-level dosing. This wasn't some amateur trying to hurt her. This was a professional sending a message."
"A message."
"To you. To Sergei. Proving he can reach your family anywhere, anytime." Wesley's voice drops. "Izzy, this has Matthew written all over it. The precision. The restraint. He didn't want her dead. He wanted you terrified."
Mission fucking accomplished.
"How did he do it? She was at school all day. Then she came straight here?—"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out. Could be her lunch. Could be something she touched. Thallium can be absorbed through skin contact with contaminated surfaces." He pauses. "Could be something she carries with her every day. Something she brings to school, brings home, brings everywhere."
Something she carries everywhere.
My gaze drifts to the hallway. To the pink backpack with the unicorn patch, still slumped by the front door where Mila dropped it yesterday afternoon. Before the stomach cramps. Before the blood.
Before everything.
"I'll call you back."
I hang up before he can respond.
The backpack looks innocent. Cheerful, even. Pink canvas covered in sparkly star patches, that unicorn grinning at me like it knows something I don't. Mila's had it since second grade. Carries it everywhere.
To school.
To Elena's house.
To our house.
Everywhere.
I crouch beside it, turning it over in my hands. Nothing looks wrong. No stains, no residue, nothing that screamspoison delivery device. But Wesley said thallium is colorless. Odorless. Perfect for?—
My fingers brush the bottom corner of the lining.
Something hard underneath.
I freeze.
The stitching around the lump is different from the rest. Newer thread. Slightly off-color. You'd never notice unless you were looking.
Unless you'd learned to look for things that shouldn't be there.
My nails tear through the stitching before I consciously decide to check. The thread gives way, revealing a small black rectangle tucked into the padding.
I know what it is before I pull it out.
Surveillance bug. Professional grade. The kind that costs thousands and transmits in real-time to a remote receiver.
It's warm against my palm. Still active.
Still listening.
The kitchen. The bedroom. Every conversation we've had in this house. Every plan, every fear, every whispered confession in the dark.
Matthew heard everything.
Something makes me look deeper into the backpack. A water bottle—the sparkly purple one Mila carries everywhere. Takes it to school, brings it home, refills it a dozen times a day.
