The First Crack

"Bad energy," Elena repeated to the empty kitchen. The words hung in the air, stale and impossible, long after Diana had retreated to the living room with her almond croissant.

Elena gripped the edge of the counter. *Lighter. Asthma. Candles.* The data points swirled in her head, refusing to connect. Her sister, who once made Marcus throw out a three-hundred-dollar cologne because it made her chest tight, was now carrying a Zippo?

She needed order. She needed numbers.

Elena abandoned her cooling coffee and marched to the pantry, unlocking the heavy steel door of the medical supply closet. This was her domain. The shelves were lined with clear bins, labeled in her precise handwriting: *Tubing. Syringes. Gauze. Saline.*

She pulled the heavy logbook from its shelf. Every milliliter of medication that entered this house was recorded. Every dose administered was initialed. It was the only way to keep the insurance auditors—and her own anxiety—at bay.

She flipped to the Controlled Substances tab. *Lorazepam.*

Leo took a micro-dose for seizures, 0.5mg, only in emergencies. The last refill was three days ago. Thirty vials delivered.

Elena counted the box.

Twenty-eight.

She recounted. She pulled the box out, lining the tiny amber bottles up on the metal shelf. Twenty-eight.

Two were missing.

She checked the administration log. No entries for the last three days. Leo had been stable.

"Looking for buried treasure?"

Elena jumped, knocking a box of gloves to the floor. Marcus was leaning against the doorframe, still holding his coffee, watching her with a look that hovered between amusement and pity.

"Two vials of Lorazepam are gone," Elena said, not turning around. She picked up the gloves, her fingers shaking. "The count is off."

Marcus took a sip of coffee. "You probably used them and forgot to log it, El. You were practically sleepwalking yesterday."

"I don't forget to log," she snapped. "I log *everything*. Even when I'm sleepwalking."

"Okay, okay." He held up a hand, stepping into the small space. He smelled of shower gel and the almond pastry Diana had brought. "Maybe one rolled under the shelf. Or maybe the pharmacy shorted us. It happens."

"It doesn't happen with narcotics, Marcus. They triple-count."

He sighed, the sound loud in the confined space. He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were warm, but the gesture felt patronizing. "You are looking for problems because you're stressed about the storm. About the money. About Diana."

"I'm not—"

"You are," he interrupted softly. "You're spiraling. Just... stop counting for a minute. Come sit down. Diana put a movie on for Leo."

He took the logbook from her hands and closed it. "I'll call the pharmacy when the lines are back up. We have plenty. It’s not a crisis."

He steered her out of the closet, his hand heavy on the small of her back. He was managing her. Handling her like an unruly employee.

"Go sit," he ordered gently. "I'll clean up the breakfast mess."

Elena walked into the living room. Diana was curled on the sofa next to Leo’s complex chair, pointing at the TV screen, laughing at a cartoon. She looked perfect. Devoted.

But Elena’s mind was still in the closet. *Twenty-eight.*

She waited until Marcus went upstairs to take a call. The distraction of the cartoon kept Diana occupied.

Elena moved back to the kitchen. Marcus had consolidated the trash, pushing the pastry box down into the bin.

She opened the cabinet under the sink. The smell of coffee grounds and stale sugar wafted up. She didn't hesitate. She reached into the bin, pushing past the sticky pastry box, past the wet paper towels.

She wasn't crazy. She didn't forget.

Her fingers brushed against something small and foil-like near the bottom. Not a pastry wrapper.

She pulled it out.

It was the torn corner of a blister pack foil, stained with coffee grounds. She wiped it on her jeans, squinting at the tiny black text stamped on the silver backing.

It was Lorazepam. But the dosage wasn't 0.5mg.

It was 2mg. Adult strength.

Leo’s prescription was for liquid vials. This wrapper was for a tablet.

Elena stared at the silver scrap in her palm. They didn't have adult sedatives in the house. Marcus took ibuprofen. She took nothing.

She turned the foil over. There was a partial pharmacy label stuck to the other side, torn and wet. The patient name was missing, but the date was from yesterday.

And the prescribing doctor wasn't Leo's pediatrician.

It was a doctor in Las Vegas.