That one word changed the room. Elias looked past Anna at the children, and something ugly moved across his face. Possession. Not love. Not fear. Possession.

“You’ve poisoned them,” he whispered.

Anna backed up until her legs hit the bed. I moved again, slower. Elias reached inside his coat. Everything narrowed.

Anna saw it too. She threw the vase. It hit his shoulder and shattered. He cursed, stumbling sideways, and I crossed the room and drove him back against the wall before he could recover — hard enough to knock a framed photograph off its hook.

He was stronger than he looked, and desperate men fight like trapped animals. His elbow caught my ribs and pain flashed white. He twisted, and something metallic struck the floor.

Not a gun. A small black device. A key fob. A remote.