My brother leaned back in his chair with that familiar little smirk I had hated since childhood, looked across our crowded Thanksgiving table, and said, "Let's see if she's really allergic."

My eyes scanned the screen while the room around me dissolved into screaming and frantic sirens in the distance.

Aunt Denise [Tuesday, 4:12 PM]: I got the concentrated shellfish extract from the specialty market downtown. Pure crab and shrimp paste. If we mix it deep into the heavy cream base, she won't smell it over the butter and garlic.

Trevor [Tuesday, 4:15 PM]: Perfect. She's been acting like she owns Mom's company just because she handles the branding. Time to prove her little drama routine is all in her head.

Paige [Tuesday, 4:18 PM]: What if she actually gets sick?

Aunt Denise [Tuesday, 4:20 PM]: She won't. She's been faking it for years for attention. At worst, she gets a little hives, panics, and makes a fool of herself in front of the whole family. Then your parents will finally see how unhinged she is.

Trevor [Wednesday, 6:02 PM]: Make sure you label the container as vegan mushroom soup so she doesn't suspect anything when she sets the table.

I sat back on my heels, the cold floor beneath me feeling like ice.

They hadn't made a mistake.

They hadn't brought a seafood dish to dinner out of ignorance or thoughtlessness.

They had intentionally laced a dish, labeled it as safe for me, and pushed it across the table with the explicit goal of forcing me to consume a lethal allergen to satisfy a sick family grudge.

Trevor hadn't swallowed a random joke.

He had swallowed his own poison.

"Maya!" my father sobbed, grabbing my forearm. "Is he going to be okay?! Why is he still breathing like that?!"

"The ambulance is three minutes away," I said. My voice didn't sound like mine anymore. It was flat, stripped of all warmth, completely void of emotion.

I looked down at Trevor. His eyes were open now, bloodshot and filled with pure, unadulterated terror. He was staring at me, his fingers weakly reaching toward my sweater.

He knew what was happening to him. He was experiencing the exact agony he had tried to inflict on me.

I stood up slowly, picking up Trevor's phone and slipping it into my own pocket.

Aunt Denise was standing near the sideboard, sobbing into a linen napkin. "Oh God, my poor baby nephew! How could this happen?! Was there something tainted in the food?!"

I walked over to her.

She looked up at me, her eyes red, expecting comfort or panic.

Instead, I looked her straight in the eye and said, "I know what you put in the bowl, Denise."

Her sobbing stopped instantly. Her face drained of all color.