78

Camila

There’s a stranger in the house.

I lean over the railing near the staircase to get a better look. Blonde hair down to her hips, a fur-lined ivory coat that doesn’t hide how thin she is. She’s shorter than me; I can tell because she’s standing next to Mila and barely reaches her shoulder. Small. That’s the word I’d use to describe her. Not only in stature, but also in how she presents herself.

I’ve seen beaten dogs who shake less.

“Come on, Madison,” Mila says, her tone gentler than normal. “Asher is upstairs.”

She’s here to see Asher? Intrigued, I remain where I am on the stairs as the pair get closer. Mila sees me, her eyes going from wide to narrow. Madison, who has been pressing close to Mila like she’s a source of comfort, stops short at the sight of me. The young woman can’t be older than eighteen. Her face, unlike her thin body, has the roundness of youth.

“Did you need something?” Mila asks me with an edge.

Ignoring her, I smile kindly at Madison. “Hi there, I’m Camila.”