Elena’s POV

When my mother told me to get dressed because we were going shopping, I knew something was wrong.

Not small wrong. Not normal Mary Prescott wrong where she insults my shoes or sighs like my existence personally offends her. This was different. Her voice was too smooth. Too sweet. Like when someone smiles right before they shove you under a bus.

“Put on something nice,” she said from the doorway. “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

I blinked at her from my bed. ...