Page 120 of Hades

I stared at him. “How the fuck do you know all that?”

“I have her medical report.”

“Already?” Cashien asked.

Coeus smiled like a kid who’d stolen candy. “Small-town hospitals have terrible cybersecurity.”

“Focus,” Zeus snapped. “Does she fit?”

“Fits the pattern,” Coeus said. “But this one’s worse.”

“How much worse?” Asclepius asked.

“Willow Bend’s had nine girls reported missing in twelve years. All classified as runaways.”

Hermes whistled low. “Nine?”

“Nine officially. I found chatter about more, but nothing documented. Former residents claimed abuse. Physical. Sexual. Medical neglect. Isolation. Punishment rooms. Forced labor. Staff involvement. A few allegations said Darlene let men visit after hours.”

The table went silent. Ares’ face went blank, which was never a good sign. My pulse kicked up. I could feel it in my throat.

“Anything stuck?” Atlas asked.

“Nope. Complaints dismissed. Girls labeled troubled, attention-seeking, manipulative, mentally unstable. Two caseworkers flagged the home. One got reassigned. One quit.”

Zeus’ jaw flexed. “And now she’s dead.”

“As of yesterday morning.”

“Who found her?”

“Assistant director. Darlene didn’t answer the office door.”

The word killer sat heavy on the table. No one argued. We’d danced around it long enough. Someone was killing people. Not randomly, not sloppily, not with guns or knives or anything a badge would look at twice. With plants. With fucking plants.

I looked at Coeus. “You said different toxins.”

“Yeah.”

“List them.”

He flipped another page. “Wolfsbane on Harlen. Suspected foxglove in one. Hemlock symptoms in another. Jimsonweed in the bloodwork of a woman who survived, though that was listed as accidental ingestion. Possible oleander. Possible castor. I can’t prove all of them because most bodies were buried or burned and standard screens missed the specifics. But the symptoms fit plant toxicity better than natural causes.”

Asclepius rubbed a hand over his face. “Most doctors won’t look for obscure plant toxins unless there’s a reason.”

“Exactly,” Coeus said. “Horses, not zebras.”

“Don’t start that shit again,” Zeus snapped.

Apollo’s gaze slid toward me. I didn’t like it. Didn’t like the weight of it. The knowing in it.

“What?” I asked.

He didn’t answer right away, which made me like it even less. My hands flattened on the table.

“Who would know that much about plants?” Apollo asked.

No one spoke. The question wasn’t complicated. That was the fucking problem. A farmer might know what killed livestock. An herbalist might know what helped a headache. A doctor might know what symptoms looked like after the fact. But this was different. This was precision. Different toxins. Different presentations. Different ways to make death look like something else.