She carried a small silver tray with a glass of warm milk.

Her eyes went straight to my hands, then to my face.

“You look pale, Cameron,” she said, her voice a low, gravelly whisper.

She stepped into the nursery and closed the door behind her with a soft, heavy click.

“The boy needs his rest,” I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to keep it steady.

“He does,” she agreed, setting the silver tray down on the dresser.

She walked over to the crib and looked down at Leo.

Her hand reached out, her thick, liver-spotted fingers brushing against his small forehead.

I took a sharp step forward, my instincts screaming at me to push her away from him.

“Don’t touch him,” I whispered.

Mrs. Higgins did not look up.

“He has a slight fever tonight,” she said smoothly. “But that is to be expected.”

“You’re poisoning him,” I said.

The words felt heavy and dangerous in the quiet room.

Mrs. Higgins slowly turned her head to look at me.

There was no shock in her eyes, only a cold, empty amusement.