My husband told us good night after p0isoning my son and me with a plate of chicken in green sauce, grabbed his phone, and murmured, “It’s done… soon they’ll both be gone.” And I, lying there on the floor, didn’t even dare take a breath.

The sound of shattering glass from the first floor announced the arrival of the authorities. High-powered flashlights cut through the darkness of the hallway, casting long, sweeping beams of white light across the walls.

"FBI! Nobody move! Put your hands on your head!" a booming voice roared from the staircase.

Olivia didn't hesitate. She ran toward the master bathroom, attempting to escape through the secondary service stairs that led to the garage. But Marcus was faster. He threw his weight against the bathroom door, locking her inside before she could reach the exit.

Ethan, bleeding from the head where Marcus had struck him, scrambled toward his fallen pistol. He grabbed the weapon, turned toward the doorway, and fired two wild shots into the hall.

"Officer down! Return fire!" a shout echoed from the stairs.

A barrage of gunfire erupted through the drywall, filling the master bedroom with the smell of sulfur and plaster dust. I pulled myself under the heavy oak bed frame, covering my ears as the world around me tore itself apart.

When the shooting stopped, the room was thick with white smoke. Ethan lay on his back near the closet, his pistol lying a few inches from his limp fingers, a dark crimson stain spreading rapidly across his white linen shirt. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling he had spent so much time trying to keep above our heads.

"Clear! Room is secure!" an agent shouted, rushing into the space with his weapon raised.

Marcus dropped to his knees beside me, pulling me out from under the bed. "Mia, look at me. Where is the vial? Did you find the antidote information?"

"In... in my waistband," I choked out, my throat raw and bleeding from Ethan’s grip.

Marcus reached down, pulling the amber glass vial and Ethan’s notebook from my clothes. He glanced at the pages for five seconds before yelling out to the paramedics who were entering the room with a stretcher. "We have a Conium poisoning! High concentration! I need Atropine and an immediate gastric lavage kit! The child is upstairs in the crawlspace or the attic!"

"I'll find him," an FBI agent said, turning on his heel and sprinting toward the upper floor.

Within minutes, I was loaded onto a gurney, a plastic oxygen mask pressed against my face, the sweet sensation of cold air filling my starved lungs. As they wheeled me down the stairs of my ruined home, I saw Olivia being led out in handcuffs, her expensive clothes torn and stained with soot, her face a mask of absolute, frozen terror.

But I didn't care about her. I kept my eyes locked on the front door.

Just as they wheeled me into the pouring rain toward the flashing red and blue lights of the ambulance grid, I saw another paramedic emerging from the side of the house, carrying a small bundle wrapped in a warm, white thermal blanket.

It was Ryan. He was conscious, his small hand reaching out toward me through the rain.