I take it from him, inspect the fluid for any remaining bubbles of air—such a necessary substance, unless it happens to work its way into Mrs. Ray’s cerebral circulation—and remove the plastic cap.

Morgan licks his lips as I insert the needle into the catheter, holding my breath, and steadily depress the plunger.

“You’ll be fine, Mrs. Ray,” I say.

The room has become a sauna, heavy and hot and airless.

Beside me, Lorenzo starts a stopwatch, and we wait, all eyes on the woman in the wheelchair.

It seems hours, but I’m told only ten minutes have passed when Delilah Ray checks the catheter, rubs at a spot on the left side of her graying head, and turns to the plexiglass box holding Thumper. “What a lovely rabbit that is,” she says. “A cottontail. Used to have a whole warren full of them when I was a girl.”

The air in the room clears like the tropics after a monsoon.

Chapter Sixty-two

SIXTY-TWO

I feel like celebrating. Or dancing. Or turning cartwheels down the empty hall of the lab. I feel like champagne and chocolate and fireworks.

I feel, just a little, like a god.

Also, I feel my life may be over.

Morgan leaves us after a brief conversation on his phone, most of which involves references to “my team” and “my project” and “my work.” He’s still smirking as he walks past us and out the lab’s main doors, calling for the orderly to pick up his pace and take Mrs. Ray back to her nursing home. Morgan, of course, has more work to do.

“So,” I say, turning to Lorenzo, “I guess that’s it.”

“Not necessarily.” His eyes move to the refrigerated cabinet where six vials, all labeled with the red X of death, remain.

“No way,” I whisper.

“It’s the only way,” he says, and the very words I spoke to Patrick last night play over in my head, a broken record of Would you kill?

“We’ll never get them out of here.”

He opens the refrigerator door and slides out the tray with the deadly neuroproteins, the poison that, even in the smallest of quantities, killed a dozen mice. “We only need one, Gianna.”

I check the clock on the lab wall. Both hands point straight up. When I came in this morning, Sergeant Petroski was on duty at the security station. He yawned, said hello, and yawned again. If he was up all night, the only ally I have in this building will be at home, sleeping off a graveyard shift.

All right. On to plan B.

Except I don’t have a plan B.

Or maybe I do.