By early morning, Brittany finally arrived at the hospital wearing sunglasses indoors, which immediately made something in my stomach tighten.
She rushed toward me with wide eyes and a trembling voice, saying, “I came as soon as I could, what happened to them,” but there was something off in the way she spoke, like she was following a script.
When I told her about the carbon monoxide and the detectors, her eyes flicked away for just a fraction of a second before she said softly, “That is really strange.”
Miles stepped closer and asked calmly, “Where exactly were you during all of this,” and Brittany hesitated just long enough for it to feel wrong before saying she had been at a private retreat with no phone service.
The explanation sounded convenient, almost too neat, and when I repeated what she had told me about picking up the mail and mentioning the basement door, she dismissed it casually as if it meant nothing.
She never once looked toward the ICU doors.
That detail stayed with me longer than anything she said.
Later that afternoon, Miles leaned close and said quietly, “We need to go back to the house and check everything ourselves.”