The fire in the library had burned down to a bed of sullen, glowing embers, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock the pretense of warmth and comfort in this house. I had remained there long after Maya and Leo had retreated, the whiskey a slow, familiar burn in my veins. The air was thick with the ghosts of the evening's performance, the echo of Maya's calculated fury, the unnerving precision of Leo's rehearsed question. They were a team, a mother-and-son act of such chilling proficiency that it almost made me admire them. Almost.
But admiration was a luxury I couldn't afford. I was a resident of this estate, a cog in Charles's machine, and I had just been handed the task of locking the door on a fellow inmate who was far more dangerous than she appeared. The weight of it settled on me, a suffocating blanket of complicity. I was no longer just an observer. I was an active participant in the construction of a cage.
