“Sienna,” he said. “Explain the weave again.”

My hands were cold, but my mind was remarkably clear.

I reached out and picked up the damp scrap of wool I had just tested.

“The fibers are not just coated,” I said, holding the fabric up so the faint blue light of the phone illuminated the weave.

“If the poison had been sprayed onto the finished cloth, it would only sit on the surface.”

“It would rub off on the shears, or leave a residue on my ironing board.”

“But this is different.”

“The toxin is locked inside the core of the yarn itself.”

Killian took a step closer, his eyes scanning the dark corners of the room before settling on me.

“What does that mean in plain terms?” he asked.

“It means the poison was introduced during the spinning and weaving process,” I said.

“Specifically, at the mills in Biella, Italy.”

“They used dual-beam looms to lock the treated thread into the warp and the weft.”

“You cannot do that by accident.”

“It requires resetting the tension of the machinery to accommodate the chemical weight.”