The morning sun had barely cleared the horizon when Mike Weller’s sports car roared to life, the pristine white gravel of the estate crunching beneath the high-performance tires.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was thick enough to suffocate. I sat in the passenger seat, my 5'9" frame looking small, pulled tight against the passenger door as I stared fixedly out the window. I had dressed for comfort today—an oversized, faded charcoal-grey crewneck that swallowed my torso and a pair of simple leggings, my vibrant ginger hair hastily twisted up into a claw clip with a few rebellious copper strands framing my pale face. I looked tired, my hazel eyes shadowed by a lack of sleep, carrying a heavy, helpless sort of quietness that had settled over me since the previous day.
In the back seat,
