The iced tea tasted like nothing on my tongue anymore. I kept sipping anyway, hoping the cold would numb the growing dread twisting in my stomach.
Henrietta scared the living s**t out of me.
Just yesterday I’d watched her blast a shotgun at innocent birds in the garden like it was a casual morning hobby. This morning, before we left, I caught her sharpening a knife the size of my forearm while humming an old 60s Italian love song, smiling like she was preparing Sunday dinner instead of a murder.
She was supposed to be the normal one in Lorenzo’s family.
The thought made me want to laugh and vomit at the same time. If this was normal, I didn’t want to imagine what the rest of them were like. I’d already met one neon-wearing psychopath back in New York. That had been enough of a warning
