Dr. Harrison set his black leather bag on the glass coffee table.

The metallic latches clicked open, a sharp sound in the quiet room.

His hands shook as he pulled out a sterile syringe and a small vial.

“Mr. DeLuca,” Dr. Harrison murmured, looking at the floor. “The boy is sleeping. A blood draw might agitate him.”

“Do it,” Matteo said.

Enzo returned, his boots squeaking on the polished hardwood.

“One of the men knocked over a stone pedestal in the guest wing,” Enzo reported. “They are doing a full sweep. Nothing has been found yet.”

My heart did a slow, painful roll.

The guest wing was adjacent to the staff quarters.

My small bedroom was right there.

Under my mattress lay the glass jar of poisoned tea.

If they found it, I was dead.

Matteo would not listen to excuses.

“Enzo,” Matteo said. “Search the staff quarters next. Tear the rooms apart if you have to.”

Mrs. Higgins smiled.

It was a faint, ugly twitch of her lips.

“Of course, Mr. DeLuca,” she said. “We must be thorough.”

I had to get to my room.