_Forty-nine beakers. Forty-nine freaking beakers._
Natasha paced the lab, head shaking incessantly.
_This isn't right. This isn't. Right._
Spinning to face the storage shelves, she counted again.
_... forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-fucking-nine._
She balled her fists and growled in frustration.
_There should be fifty here. Where's the other one?_
Suddenly, a terrible thought. What about th...