While the Starlings plotted in shadows, convinced Luciano would be the blade that gutted the Davises from within, the invitation he had already set in motion reached its destination—landing in a different home, one quiet, unassuming, and entirely unaware of the chaos it was about to unleash.
The small, suburban house in the valley smelled of stale microwave popcorn and the sharp, chemical tang of lemon-scented floor cleaner—a scent Martha used to mask the underlying odor of a life that had settled into a stagnant, unremarkable rhythm.
Fourteen years had passed since the sky had been "cruelly, impossibly blue" over two open graves. The woman who had once folded T-shirts into perfect squares was now a woman who lived in the flickering, hypnotic glow of a television screen.
