I showed him the video of the gloved hand pouring the white powder.

“It smells like bitter almonds,” I said.

“Cyanide,” the doctor said, his face turning pale.

He turned back toward the room.

“We need a Cyanokit!” he roared.

“And get OB-GYN down here now!”

The double doors swung open as more medical staff rushed inside.

I stood frozen in the corridor.

The smell of bleach and floor wax mixed with the phantom scent of almonds on my skin.

I looked at my phone again.

The text had come from a burner number, but the angle of the camera was distinct.

It had been filmed yesterday afternoon.

My mother had come over to help clean while I was at the hardware store.

Megan had been sleeping in the bedroom.

I remembered my mother’s soft voice on the phone last night, asking if Megan was taking her medication regularly.

She had sounded so sweet.

So caring.

A monitor inside the room began to emit a high-pitched, continuous beep.

“We’re losing the fetal heart rate,” a voice called out.

“The baby’s bradycardic.”