Dinner at the Prescott house always looked like something out of a magazine — but felt more like a punishment.

The chandelier above the dining table cast golden light over everything, making the polished wood gleam and the silverware sparkle. But no amount of light could disguise the chill in the room. It was too quiet, too perfect. Every movement had to be calculated, every sound measured.

I sat in Elena’s body, stiff-backed and uncomfortable, poking at a piece of overcooked salmon while ...