I woke up to voices downstairs. Not normal morning voices, not the soft kitchen sounds Harry usually made when he tried not to wake anyone. These voices were sharp. Tense. Angry. The kind of tone that made the air in this house shrink.

For a moment I lay still, staring at the ceiling of Elena’s room and reminding myself that it was Sunday and that I was still trapped in her body. My body—Blake’s real one—was probably asleep somewhere across the yard, peaceful and unaware that once ...