The house that night had the quality of a held breath.
Aria had been sent upstairs with Luca the moment they returned, the protocol clear and absolute in a way it had never been before: stay in the east wing, doors locked, do not come down regardless of what you hear. She had agreed without argument, which she understood Damien had noted with something between relief and surprise.
Luca, sensing the change in the house's pressure the way children always sensed such things, had been clingy and quiet in equal measure, wanting her near but not wanting to talk about why. She had let him sit pressed against her side while she read, abandoning the usual rhythm of the evening for something slower, something that asked nothing of him except presence.
It was nearly midnight when she heard the car
