Next morning? Gloomy. Like, aggressively grey. The kind of day where the sky’s basically breathing down your neck, daring you to go outside. The Smith estate, which usually looks like a backdrop for a Jane Austen picnic, was totally swallowed by mist. You could barely hear the birds—maybe they just weren’t feeling it either.
Selene was curled up in the drawing room, knees tucked under her, robe all bunched up, staring at a cup of tea she’d completely forgotten about. Cold, obviously. Yesterday had wrung her out—burning those memories took something out of her. Not her backbone, exactly, but something deeper. Her voice, maybe. Now, the quiet was so loud it was almost rude.
She watched the fog slide around the roses and hedges, all ghost-like. Somewhere out there, Raymond was probably glue
