The living room drowned in a bruised purple twilight, the only sharp light emanating from the wide television screen. A mindless reality show flickered, casting erratic shadows across the walls. Isla huddled into the corner of the oversized leather sofa, her knees pulled tightly to her chest. Beside her, Uncle Damien lounged with a glass of amber bourbon in his hand, his presence filling the space like a heavy fog. He didn't look at the screen; he looked at her.

"You've been staring at that same spot on the rug for ten minutes, isla," Damien said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the quiet room.