Her oldest child, a little girl named Wren, stood slightly apart from everyone else, holding a stuffed rabbit by one ear.
Sylas was there too.
Of course he was.
He leaned against a dented car in the driveway, arms crossed, looking annoyed that the world had once again failed to arrange itself around his comfort.
My mother spotted me through the glass.
“There she is,” she snapped. “Open the door, Vesper.”
Mr. Gideon looked at me.
Not kindly.
Not harshly.
Just steadily.
“Your decision,” he said.
That was the first mercy anyone had given me that night.
A choice.
I swallowed.
“Open it,” I whispered.
The second the door cracked, my mother pushed her way inside as if she owned the house.
The cold night air followed her.
So did the smell of rain, old fast food, baby powder, and panic.
Elowen stepped in next, bouncing the baby against her shoulder.
