ELEVEN
THE ONLY THING THAT surprised me about the house was that it was so remarkably normal-looking.
“Normal if you’re used to gorgeous Tudor redbrick mansions, that is,” I murmured to myself as we drove through the security gates and up a mile-long drive. The house sat on the crest of a gentle hill, framed by a semicircle of stately willow and lime trees along the sides and back of the house, beyond which I could see the glint of water—probably a large pond or a small lake.
“What are you talking about?” Cyrene asked.
“Nothing. What did you ask me to do?”
“Uh-oh. You’re not hearing voices, are you? Ash started doing that, and it turned out really bad,” Jim said, covertly wiping its mouth on Fiat’s shoes.
Cyrene shot a glance toward Fiat, moodily looking out the window, before she le
