During my overnight shift, my husband, my sister, and my three-year-old daughter were wheeled into the ER unconscious. When I tried to run toward them, a colleague gently grabbed my arm and whispered, “You can’t go in there right now.” My whole body shook. “Why not?” He kept his eyes lowered and said, “I’ll tell you everything… once the police get here.”

Behind him, the trauma team worked in organized chaos—cutting clothing, securing airways, rushing IV lines. I saw Logan’s wedding ring slip down his limp hand. I saw Harper’s hair spread across the pillow, her face ghost-still.

A nurse shouted, “Carboxyhemoglobin’s elevated—start the CO protocol!”

Carbon monoxide.

My mind scrambled backward through the night:
Logan putting Avery to bed.
Harper staying over because her apartment heater was broken.
The strange clicking noise from our ancient furnace I kept meaning to get checked.

None of that explained why the police were involved.

Or why Lucas blocked me like I was a threat.

The trauma doors shut, sealing my family behind glass, alarms, and frantic voices.

A respiratory therapist yelled, “We need hyperbaric consult, now!”

My knees buckled. Lucas guided me into an empty consultation room, closing the door softly.

I gripped the table. “Tell me what happened. Why can’t I see them?”

Lucas finally met my eyes—red, exhausted, but filled with a dread I’d never seen from him.

“They were found in your garage, Natalie,” he said.
“All three of them. The car engine was running.”

My blood turned cold.

Logan never warmed up the car at 3 a.m.