Chapter 19
Izzy
Sleep doesn't come for the guilty.
And Wesley's call.
The markers don't match standard food contaminants. They're testing for specific toxins.
I slip out of bed carefully, leaving Sergei's warmth for the cold reality of hardwood floors. He stirs but doesn't wake—even The Wolf needs sleep sometimes, though he'd never admit it.
The kitchen is dark, except for the glow of the coffee maker's clock. 4:17 a.m. Too early for anything except bad decisions and worse thoughts.
I make coffee anyway. The ritual of it helps—measuring grounds, filling the reservoir, pressing the button that starts the machine humming. Normal actions. Domestic actions. The kind of thing a regular stepmother does in her regular kitchen before her regular day.
Except nothing about this is regular.
Dad's lighter sits on the counter where I left it yesterday, before everything went to hell. I pick it up, thumb working the familiar mechanism.
Click snap
Click snap
The flame doesn't catch. I'm not trying to light it. Just need the motion. The connection to something solid when everything else feels like smoke.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Wesley. 5:02 a.m..
Too early to be anything, except exactly what I've been dreading.
"Tell me," I say instead of hello.
"Thallium." His voice is hoarse, like he's been up all night, too. "The full toxicology came back twenty minutes ago. My contact at the hospital pulled it before the official notification went out."
The word sits in my chest like a stone. "Thallium."
"It's a heavy metal used in rat poison and some industrial applications. Colorless, odorless, tasteless in small amounts. Perfect for—" He stops. Clears his throat. "Perfect for poisoning someone without them knowing."
"Someone poisoned Mila."
Saying it out loud makes it real. Makes it a fact instead of a fear. My hand tightens on the lighter until the metal edges bite into my palm.
"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 screams poison 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.
The cap looks different than I remember. Newer. Like someone replaced it recently.
I unscrew it slowly, holding it up to the kitchen light.
A faint residue rings the inside of the cap. Barely visible. The kind of thing you'd never notice unless you knew to look.
Thallium is colorless. Odorless. Tasteless in small amounts.
Two weapons in a child's backpack. One to listen. One to kill.
And I refilled that bottle a dozen times without knowing.
He knew Mila's schedule. Knew when she'd be at school, what she'd eat, when she'd come to us. Knew exactly how to poison her, without anyone noticing until it was too late.
And he knew we'd figure it out eventually. That's what this is—a message wrapped in a message. I can reach your daughter. I can hear your secrets. I can destroy you whenever I want.
I want to scream. Want to throw this thing against the wall and watch it shatter. Want to burn this house down and rebuild it from ashes free of Matthew's contamination.
Instead, I slip the bug into my pocket.
Because if I destroy it, Matthew knows we found it. And right now, the only advantage we have is knowing something he doesn't know we know.
Footsteps on the stairs.
Sergei appears in the hallway, sleep-rumpled and alert in that way only predators manage. His eyes find me crouched on the floor with Mila's backpack, and something in his expression sharpens.
"Izzy?"
I hold up one finger. Then I grab a notepad from the kitchen drawer, scribbling fast:
House is bugged. Found one in Mila's backpack. Don't react. Don't speak. Matthew's listening.
I hold it up for him to read.
His face goes blank. That terrifying emptiness that means The Wolf is awake and calculating exactly how many pieces he's going to tear someone into.
He takes the notepad. Writes:
How long?
Weeks. Maybe months. Wesley just called—thallium poisoning confirmed. Matthew used the bugs to track her schedule, then poisoned her.
I watch him read. Watch the words land. Watch the moment he connects the surveillance to his daughter's blood in that hospital toilet.
His hand crushes the notepad into a crumpled ball.
I grab his wrist before he can move. Squeeze hard. Hold his gaze with everything I have.
Not yet, I mouth. We need to sweep first. Find all of them.
For three heartbeats, I'm not sure he'll listen. The violence radiating off him is almost visible, a heat shimmer of rage that makes the air feel thick. His jaw is granite. His eyes are murder.
Then he nods. Once. Controlled.
He disappears into his office and returns with a device that looks like something out of a spy movie—sleek black box with an antenna, various lights blinking in sequence. RF detector. Of course he has one.
We move through the house in silence. The kitchen yields nothing—I was wrong about the overhead lights. But the living room produces a hit behind the smoke detector. Sergei removes the device with surgical precision, showing me another bug identical to the one in Mila's backpack.
The master bedroom. Another smoke detector. Another bug.
Three total.
Three ears in our walls, listening to every moment of false safety we thought we had.
Sergei writes on a fresh sheet of paper:
We leave them active. Let Matthew think we don't know. We relocate to Hamptons—Andrei's safe house. It's clean.
I nod, then write:
What about Mila?
She doesn't know about Matthew. Doesn't know about the bugs. We tell her we're taking a beach vacation. Keep her safe while we handle this.
She'll know something's wrong.
She's eight. She always knows something's wrong. He pauses, then adds: But she trusts us. That's enough for now.
I stare at his words. At the implicit promise underneath them—that we'll protect her from the truth until she's ready to handle it. That we'll be the barrier between her and the violence that's circling our family like sharks.
That's what parents do, I realize. Carry the weight so their children don't have to.
When did I become a parent?
Somewhere between burnt cookies and blood in toilets. Between hospital beds and whispered promises. Somewhere in the space where fake became real and convenient became necessary.
I write one more thing:
Wesley's sending the poisoning evidence to the police today. Matthew's going down for this.
Sergei reads it. Shakes his head. Writes:
Police can't protect her. Courts take months. Matthew has lawyers, money, connections. By the time justice catches up, we could all be dead.
So what do we do?
His smile is cold. Lethal. The Wolf baring teeth.
We end him. Publicly. Permanently. Before he gets another chance to hurt what's ours.
What's ours.
Not his daughter. Not my stepdaughter. Ours.
I fold the paper carefully, tucking it into my pocket beside the bug. Evidence of conspiracy. Proof of intent. Ammunition for whatever comes next.
"I'm going to check on Mila," I say out loud, voice perfectly normal for any listeners. "She was restless last night."
"I'll make breakfast," Sergei responds, playing along. "Pancakes. She likes pancakes."
We're performing now. Acting out the domestic routine for Matthew's benefit while our real plans stay locked behind written words and silent understanding.