Not an intruder. Caleb.

He was supposed to be in Paris. Instead I watched my brother reach out and turn the dials on the gas range — not enough to hiss, just enough to let it bleed invisibly into the room — and then lift his phone and start photographing the dangerous environment to send to Dr. Thorne.

He’s still here, I thought, cold sweat crawling down my neck. He’s the inside man.

I didn’t storm into the kitchen. If I confronted him now, he’d text our parents inside a minute, and they’d move the transport up. I had to play the game exactly the way they’d built it.

Only better.

I waited until he slipped out the back door and vanished into the tree line toward the old carriage house. Then I ran down, shut the gas off, and threw the windows open, letting the wind scour the poison out of the room while my hands shook on the sill.