Camilla sat in one of the living room chairs, her posture straight but her eyes distant, unfocused. The house was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that presses against the skin. A soft clink broke it when Donatello set a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice on the table beside her.

“You should drink,” he said, not quite gently, but not cold either. Something in between. Controlled.

Camilla didn’t touch the glass. She kept staring at the carpet, her fingers rubbing slowly against ...