The baby let out a tiny, warm breath against my neck, his small fingers hooking into the collar of my uniform.

“We don’t have a choice,” Lorenzo said, his voice a low, dangerous gravel.

“We need to know what they did to his food.”

He stepped out first, his hand resting on the holster beneath his jacket.

I followed him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The air in the hallway was colder than the nursery, carrying the faint, sterile scent of bleach.

Directly across from us was the heavy steel door of the medical pantry.

This was where Dr. Halloran kept his specialized pediatric supplies, locked away from the rest of the household.

Lorenzo pointed to the lock on the pantry door.

“The same key should work,” he whispered.

I handed him the brass key, my fingers trembling slightly against his palm.

He inserted it into the pantry door’s lock.

It turned with the same smooth, heavy click.

He pushed the door open, revealing a small, windowless room lined with stainless-steel shelves.