I waited for the image to load, the signal weak as we sped through the city.

Finally, the picture appeared on my screen.

It was a photo taken inside our apartment, looking directly at the baby’s nursery.

In the center of the frame was the antique cradle.

Under the harsh flash of the camera, something was glistening on the wooden rails.

A thick, clear liquid had been smeared along the top edges where a baby would rest its hands.

Next to the cradle on the floor sat an open, rusted metal can.

I zoomed in on the label of the can.

It was a heavy-duty industrial lead sealant, long banned for residential use.

Underneath the photo, a second text message finally arrived from the same number.

“It’s already in the wood, Jake.”

My breath caught in my throat.

I stared at the screen, the blue light reflecting in the dark ambulance.

“No,” I whispered.

The ambulance tire hit a pothole, jarring us violently.

Megan groaned, her eyes shooting open.

But she wasn’t looking at me.

She was staring at the ceiling of the ambulance, her pupils dilated.