I crumbled up the bag in my fist, then deposited it beneath a pile of crushed paper towels in the trash, along with the rubber stoppers.

More hand washing. My skin dry and chapped from such stringent cleaning. I couldn’t feel it, of course. Just note the red, inflamed skin stretched over my knuckles. I made a mental note to apply Aquaphor later tonight. I should also take a magnifying glass and inspect myself for slivers and broken bits of vial. In my earlier rush, it was possible I’d somehow maimed myself, and the wound was even now starting to fester. It wasn’t as if I would know.

After all, what would I feel if I woke up in the middle of the night and found a killer standing in the middle of my bedroom? It wasn’t as if he could cause me pain. Surprise, yes. Shock, rage and even shame. But no pain.

Never any pain.

And I thought, rather wildly, that my father had to have known. I bet he did cut me when I was a baby, because why would he have cared about my mother’s pleas? No, I bet one night he casually reached over and sliced a razor across my pudgy fist.

Except I hadn’t reacted. I’d remained rooted in the same spot, little arm still outstretched, blood welling, staring at him with perfectly solemn, baby eyes. Practically daring him to do worse.

I bet I’d unnerved him. I might have even sparked fear in the heart of the alpha. Until he’d picked up my baby carrier and stuck me in the closet. Anything to keep me from studying him with my all-knowing gaze.

I was not my mother. I was not my father. I was not my sister.

I was my family’s conscience.

No wonder they’d kept me in the closet.

All alone.

Eight P.M. The temperature had fallen even further, and I shivered inside my wool coat as I trudged back to my car, two grocery bags in hand. I wanted to go home, but I still had the crushed vials. Where could you dispose of broken glass and no one would notice?

Then, it came to me. Recycling. Of course. Glass recycling.

I loaded my twin bags into my car, then returned to the front of the grocery store and its blue-plastic recycling center. Sure enough, one bin marked glass. I glanced around, waiting for a lull in pedestrian traffic.

Then I quickly opened my purse, grabbed the gallon-size bag, yanked it open and dumped out the glass. One, two, three, done.

Mission complete, I headed once more for the automatic doors, looking up only at the last minute to spot the security cameras directly overhead. Pointed at the recycling bin.

Go, go, go, I instructed my suddenly frozen muscles. Move!