The kitchen door burst outward, slamming into the drywall as the second paramedic hauled the gurney through the frame. The siren outside wasn't just a distant wail anymore; it was a rhythmic pulse rattling the kitchen window, vibrating through the cold linoleum under my back.

The chest tube was a dull, constant ache in my right side, but the oxygen mask had been replaced by a nasal cannula. I could speak, though my voice sounded like sandpaper grinding over glass.

The door clicked open. It wasn't a nurse.

It was Detective Miller—a broad-shouldered man in a rumpled grey suit, carrying a leather-bound notebook. Behind him was my stepfather, Daniel. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair messy, looking like he had aged ten years in three hours.

"Emma," Daniel whispered, rushing to the side of the bed. He reached out to touch my arm, his hand trembling. "Thank God. The doctor said the poison level is stabilizing."

"Daniel..." my voice was barely audible. "Caleb... where is Caleb?"

"He's at your aunt's house down the street," Daniel said quickly. "He's fine. He's safe."

Detective Miller stepped up to the edge of the bed, dragging a vinyl chair over. "Emma, I'm Detective Miller with the Cedar Rapids Police Department. Dr. Chen gave us the toxicology report. You have high levels of a restricted chemical agent in your blood. We need to know what you were exposed to."

I swallowed hard, the movement painfully dry. "The sink... the water... the dishes."

"The water?" Miller pulled out a pen. "Did you drink it?"

"No," I whispered. "I was washing... the plates. But the smell... for three days, the kitchen smelled like burnt rubber and old bleach. Mom said... she said it was just the drain backing up."

"Your mother told us the same thing," Miller noted calmly. "She said you've been using heavy-duty cleaning products to scrub the grout in the kitchen."

"No!" I tried to sit up, but the chest tube pulled sharply, making me gasp. "No, I didn't! I never used that! Uncle Ray... Ray put something down the sink."

Daniel froze. He looked up at the detective, then down at me. "Ray? Ray doesn't even touch the dish soap, Emma. What are you talking about?"

"The basement," I rasped, focusing entirely on Daniel. "Daniel... check the basement. Ray locked it last month. He said he was storing his contractor tools down there. He told Caleb never to go down those stairs."

Detective Miller scribbled something quickly in his notebook. "Your mother told us she lost the key to the basement door weeks ago."

"She didn't lose it," I said, a tear escaping the corner of my eye. "She gave it to him. I saw her give it to him the night he moved in. They were arguing in the kitchen at midnight. She was crying, and he told her... he said, 'You owe me for what happened in Chicago.'"

Daniel's face drained of all color. "Chicago? Your mother hasn't been to Chicago in twenty years."

"She was there three months ago, Daniel," I said, my voice rising slightly despite the pain. "Before you came back from your oil rig rotation. She said she was visiting her sister, but her sister lives in Des Moines!"

Detective Miller stood up immediately. He snapped his notebook shut. "Mr. Vance, I need you to stay here with your stepdaughter. Do not leave this room."

"Where are you going?" Daniel asked, his voice shaking with a dangerous mixture of confusion and growing fury.

"I'm securing a search warrant for your residence," Miller replied coldly. "And I'm calling for a hazardous materials team to inspect the premises."

As the detective strode out of the ICU room, my phone—which Daniel had placed on the bedside table—vibrated again.

Daniel picked it up before I could reach for it. He looked at the screen.

"Who is 'Unknown'?" Daniel asked, his thumb sliding over the glass to open the text message.

I watched his face as he read it. The color didn't just drain from his skin this time; his entire jaw went slack. His hand began to shake so violently the phone almost slipped from his grip.

"What does it say, Daniel?" I whispered.