The one with the short-cropped hair raised her arm. Cecille. “Um, I was one of the first people to take a seat. Andrew wasn’t here yet, but the iced tea was already on the table, like he’d maybe just opened it, then went to get something. Or maybe he went to throw away the cap.”

“The cap!” D.D. agreed. She marched over to the trash can. Right on top, one white lid stamped Koala Iced Tea. D.D. snapped on gloves and fished it out. Metal, for sealing a glass bottle. Not the kind of container that could be easily tampered with—say, penetrated by a syringe. Nope. Cap came off. Poison went in.

Now, possibly, the product had been poisoned at the warehouse level, part of a massive terrorist act. Or possibly, Lightfoot’s barky little dog had plotted revenge and spiked her master’s tea on the home front.

But D.D. was willing to bet Lightfoot’s distinctive beverage took the hit while sitting exposed in the common area.

“How long was Lightfoot gone?” she asked Cecille.

The MC shrugged. “I’m not sure. Not long. A few minutes. Five minutes maybe. People were starting to gather. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

D.D. looked around the room. One by one, everyone dropped their gazes.

“I was with a kid,” Greg volunteered softly. He glanced at Danielle. “She was with me. We came late.”

Establishing alibis. D.D. liked it. And they thought the milieu of the unit had been compromised before.

“I don’t understand,” Karen spoke up. “Why would someone poison Andrew? I mean, this whole thing … This is crazy.”

“Good question.” D.D. considered it. “Maybe because you brought him here to fix the unit. Calm it down. Following that logic, maybe someone doesn’t want the unit calmed down. That person wants you all jumpy and edgy and chasing after exploding kids. Lightfoot’s poisoned. You’re all freaked-out as hell. Mission accomplished.”

Karen gaped at her. “That’s insane.”

“Twelve dead and one injured. All connected with this ward. You’re right—can’t get much more insane than that.”

“Stop it! We are not those kind of people—”

“What kind of people?” D.D. asked with interest.

“Murderers. Dr. Deaths or Angels of Doom.”

“Medical caretakers who convince themselves that their patients—i.e., their troubled young charges—would be better off dead?” D.D. volunteered helpfully.

Karen glared at her. “Myself, my staff, we are committed to healing children. Not hurting them.”

“People change.”

“No!” Karen blazed. “You don’t get it. This is a pediatric psych ward. We work as tightly together as any trauma team. And we succeed precisely because we know one another that well, we believe in one another that much. I’d trust anyone here to hand me a drink right now and I would down it without hesitation.”