Chapter 1
The key slipped in my lock three times before it turned.
My heels clicked sharp on the porch wood, the champagne fizz of my promotion still humming in my veins.
It was 10:30 p.m.
Two full hours later than I’d promised Leo I’d be home.
The house swallowed me whole the second I stepped inside.
Too quiet.
No cartoon theme song droning from the living room.
No floppy stuffed T-Rex discarded face-down on the couch like it was every single night.
My purse hit the entry table with a thud that echoed too loud.
“Leo?” I called, soft, like I was just checking he was asleep, not already terrified.
No answer.
My stomach twisted into a hard, cold knot as I climbed the stairs.
Each step creaked under my weight.
Each second stretched too long.
The nursery door was cracked an inch, the blue nightlight bleeding a faint, icy glow across the carpet.
I pushed it open.
My blood turned to slush.
Leo was on the floor beside his bed, his dinosaur blanket tangled tight around his calves.
His lips were the color of a winter sky.
Pale.
Blue.
Wrong.
His chest wasn’t moving.
I screamed, a raw, broken sound that tore out of my throat before I could stop it.
I dropped to my knees, the carpet burning my skin, and pressed my ear to his tiny chest.
Silence.
Then—faint.
Fluttering.
A beat so weak I almost missed it.
Barely there.
I grabbed my phone.
My hands shook so bad it slipped through my fingers twice, clattering on the floor.
I dialed 911, gasping out our address between sobs, my words slurring together so bad the operator had to ask me to repeat it three times.
That’s when Ethan walked in.
My husband of six years.
The man I’d promised forever to.
He leaned in the doorway in sweatpants, hair messy, holding a half-empty glass of water like he’d just wandered out of bed for a drink.
Like our son wasn’t blue on the floor three feet away.
“Chill out,” he said, yawning.
He didn’t even take a step toward Leo.
“He probably just had an asthma attack. He’ll be fine.”
I stared at him, my mouth hanging open.
Our son was dying.
And he was yawning.
Sirens split the night five minutes later.
Two paramedics burst up the stairs, bags thudding against their hips.
The lead one was tall, broad, with a thick pale scar slicing across his left jaw.
His name tag read JAKE.
He dropped to his knees beside Leo without a word, slapping an oxygen mask over his face.
He checked his pulse.
Listened to his lungs.
Reached for the albuterol inhaler I’d refilled just three days earlier, sitting on the changing table.
He shook it hard.
Pressed the nozzle once.
Nothing came out but a hiss of empty air.
He twisted the canister out, held it up to the light, and frowned.
Completely empty.
Impossibly empty.
I’d watched the pharmacist count the puffs with my own eyes.
That’s when he looked up.
His gaze locked straight past me.
Onto Ethan.
His face drained of all color so fast the scar on his jaw stood out bright red, like it was fresh.
“Ethan?” he whispered.
Like he’d seen a ghost.
Ethan flinched.
He stumbled back so fast his shoulder slammed into the doorframe.
“I don’t know you. Get out of my house.”
Jake stood slow.
He never took his eyes off Ethan.
He signaled his partner to keep working, his hands shaking at his sides.
“I know exactly who you are,” he said, his voice low and rough with rage.
“You’re the piece of shit who swapped my little sister Lila’s asthma inhalers for saline when we were 17.”
My breath caught in my throat.
I spun between them, my head spinning.
Ethan’s face flushed bright red, his fists clenching so tight his knuckles went white.
“She died,” Jake said, stepping closer.
“She couldn’t breathe during an attack. Her mom thought it was a mistake. A pharmacy error. But I saw you leave her room that night. I never forgot your face.”
I turned on Ethan, screaming so loud my throat burned.
“Is that true? Did you touch Leo’s inhaler?”
He didn’t answer.
He turned and ran for the hallway, tripping over the stair rail, his water glass shattering on the floor.
I chased him.
We skidded into the kitchen, his gym bag splayed open on the counter like he’d been rummaging through it right before I got home.
I stared inside.
Six empty albuterol canisters, clinking against each other.
A full bottle of saline solution.
A tiny plastic bag of white powder I’d never seen before in my life.
Behind me, Jake’s partner called up the stairs.
Leo’s pulse was stronger.
They had to move him to the hospital now.
Jake walked into the kitchen.
He saw the bag in my hand.
He lifted his work radio to his mouth, his eyes still locked on Ethan, who was frozen mid-step toward the back door.
He said three words, clear and sharp.
“Attempted murder in progress.”
The wail of police sirens cut through the house a second later.
Loud.
May you like
Closer.
Unstoppable.
