Their tires threw gravel against the low hedges as they came to a halt.

Men in heavy turnout gear began jumping from the fire truck, pulling thick yellow hoses toward the smoke-filled east wing.

The sergeant ignored the commotion, his eyes locked on the paper.

“This is a toxicological panel,” Alexander whispered.

His voice sounded hollow, like all the air had been forced from his lungs.

“What does it say, Alexander?” Vivian demanded, stepping forward.

Her silk heels sank into the soft mud near the grass.

“Tell them it’s nonsense so we can get out of this cold.”

Alexander didn’t look at her.

“The panel shows lethal levels of a synthetic glycoside,” Alexander said.

He turned the page over, his fingers gripping the corner so hard the paper tore slightly.

“It’s an experimental compound,” I said, looking directly at Celeste. “Used in advanced cardiovascular research.”

Celeste did not flinch.

“And how does that concern any of us?” Celeste asked, her tone smooth and cold. “Eleanor was a sick woman. She took many experimental drugs.”

“She didn’t take this one,” I said.