Madeline woke to the sound of her husband lying.

She had been conscious for less than an hour, still weak enough that lifting her head made the room tilt, when Detective Ruiz asked Preston who had been inside the house that afternoon.

He answered calmly.

"Just me and Poppy."

Madeline turned her face toward him.

Preston did not look back.

Across the room, four-year-old Poppy sat with her stuffed rabbit pressed against her chest.

She had barely spoken since the ambulance brought Madeline to the hospital, but now her eyes moved slowly from her father's face to the inside pocket of his jacket.

Madeline noticed.

So did Preston.

His hand covered the pocket almost casually.

That small movement unsettled her more than his lie.

She remembered Serena standing in the kitchen.

She remembered the warm milk.

She remembered feeling suddenly too heavy to stay upright.

Everything after that existed in fragments: Poppy crying beside her, footsteps upstairs, Preston's arms beneath her shoulders, Serena somewhere near the doorway.

Detective Ruiz closed her notebook.

Before she could leave, Poppy slid down from the chair.

She walked to the side of Madeline's bed and looked at her father.

"Daddy took the little bottle."

Preston's face went still.

Madeline looked at his jacket again.

For the first time since waking, she stopped wondering whether Serena had tried to hurt her.