“Easy, boy,” I murmured, my teeth clenched.

I gripped the tiny fragment with the forceps, feeling the resistance.

I pulled, steady and straight, keeping my wrist locked.

With a soft, wet click, the metal sliver slid free.

I held it up to the beam of Dante’s flashlight.

It was a curved, hollow needle tip, about half an inch long, blackened at the break.

“Veterinary grade,” I said, placing it on the clean tray. “Someone used an old, brittle needle to inject something into his joint, and they snapped it off on purpose.”

Dante stared at the silver fragment, his eyes narrowing.

His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek under the faint red light.

“Marco,” he said, the name sounding like a curse.

“He was the only one allowed in the stall besides the vet,” I said, cleaning the wound with fresh gauze. “He must have done it days ago, knowing the infection would take time to show.”

“He wanted the horse dead,” Dante said. “But he wanted it to look like an accident. An illness.”