Michael’s eyes were steely, his voice calm but firm. “What are you feeding her, Gloria?”

Gloria hesitated, her gaze flickering to the jar as though it might hold the answers. “Just some mashed fruit, sir. She seemed hungry, and I thought—”

“Where did it come from?” Michael cut in, stepping closer. “I didn’t see that in the kitchen supplies.”

Gloria’s composure faltered, her posture shifting uncomfortably. “It’s—it’s homemade, Mr. Whitmore. Just something I brought from home. I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

Michael’s jaw tightened. “We have a strict regimen for Emily. Everything is monitored to ensure her safety and health.”