Kara blinked. “Carbon monoxide? But… the alarms—”
“One was missing batteries,” I cut in. “Another was unplugged.”
Her eyes flicked away. Just for a moment. Toward the vending machines. Toward anything that wasn’t me.
“That’s… weird,” she said softly.
Weird. Like a mysterious stain. Like a wrong number call. Not like attempted death.
Miles stepped closer, his presence quiet but solid. “Where were you, Kara?”
She looked at him, then back at me. “A retreat,” she said. “Upstate. No service. It was supposed to be a reset.”
“A reset,” I echoed, because my brain got stuck on how normal she was trying to make it sound.
Kara nodded eagerly. “I texted you, remember? I told you we’d be out for a few days.”
“You told me to grab the mail,” I said. “And you mentioned the basement door.”
She waved a hand like that detail didn’t matter. “Yeah, it sticks. Dad always complains about it.”
The nurse opened the ICU doors briefly, and I caught a glimpse of my mom’s bed. Kara didn’t look. Not once. She kept her eyes on me, reading my face like it was a script she needed to follow.
Later that morning, Miles leaned in close. “I want to go back to the house.”
“What?” I whispered.
“We need to see what’s going on there,” he said. “CO doesn’t just spike like that without a reason. And the detectors… that’s not random.”
I should’ve said no. I should’ve said the house felt cursed now, like stepping inside again would break something in me permanently.
Instead, I nodded.
We drove back mid-afternoon. The neighborhood looked normal again—kids riding bikes, sprinklers ticking, someone mowing a lawn. It made my skin crawl. Like the world didn’t know it was supposed to be grieving.
Inside, the air still felt heavy. Even with the windows cracked, it held that stale, suffocating memory.
Miles moved like he’d been here a hundred times, straight to the hallway where the detector should’ve been. He stared at the spot on the wall. Two screw holes. A clean rectangle where dust hadn’t settled.
“It’s gone,” he said quietly.
My throat tightened. “Maybe the paramedics took it?”
He shook his head. “They said they brought in what they found. If it’s gone, it was removed.”
We checked the kitchen. The second detector was there—technically. It sat on the counter, unplugged, its cord curled like a dead snake.
Miles picked it up, flipped it over. “Battery compartment’s empty too.”
I felt heat rise behind my eyes. “Why would anyone—”
The back door creaked in the wind and I jumped so hard my heart stung.
Miles reached into the trash can under the sink, the one my mom lined with those thin, crinkly bags that always tore. He pulled out papers, wrappers, the grocery flyer.
Then he froze.
He held up a receipt, pinched between two fingers like it could contaminate him.
I leaned closer. The paper smelled faintly of onions and soap.
“Hardware store,” Miles said, reading. “Flue vent kit. Duct sealant. Two packs of AA batteries.”
My stomach turned cold.
Because someone hadn’t forgotten the batteries. Someone had bought them.
And standing there in my parents’ kitchen, staring at that receipt, I felt the first real shape of fear—sharp, personal, and familiar enough to have a name.
If the batteries were purchased… where the hell did they go?
Part 3
By day three, exhaustion made everything feel unreal. Like I was watching my life through thick glass.
My parents remained unconscious, drifting in and out of whatever fog carbon monoxide leaves behind. The nurses spoke in careful tones. The doctor kept saying words like “neurological assessment” and “oxygen deprivation,” and I kept thinking about my mom’s hand on the carpet, reaching for something she never got to.
Kara hovered in the waiting room like a person playing the role of Concerned Daughter. She brought coffee, but it was always the wrong kind—extra sweet, flavored, like she didn’t remember that our dad drank his black and our mom liked hers with just a splash of milk.
She also kept asking the same question in different outfits: “Do they know what happened yet?”
The detective came back with more questions. This time he asked about finances. About wills. About who lived closest.
Kara’s voice got oddly bright. “Mom and Dad are fine financially,” she said, like she was proud of that. “They own the house outright.”
I stared at her. My skin prickled.
That night, Miles sat beside me, scrolling through something on his phone. His jaw was tight the way it got when he was trying not to scare me.
“I pulled the thermostat history,” he said quietly.
I blinked, slow. “You can do that?”
He nodded. “If it’s a smart system, it logs changes. Temperature shifts. Manual overrides.”
“And?” My voice came out too loud, desperate.
He hesitated. “Some of the logs are missing.”
“Missing,” I echoed.
“Deleted,” he corrected, and the word made my stomach drop.
Thermostats don’t delete themselves.
