If hell had a lobby, it would smell like burnt toast and Chanel perfume.

That was my first thought as I stood awkwardly in the Prescott kitchen barefoot, wearing one of Elena’s too-soft sweaters, and praying no one would notice that I didn’t even know how to pour coffee without spilling it.

Mary Prescott sat at the breakfast bar like a queen on her throne, scrolling through her phone, a steaming mug beside her. She didn’t even glance up when I shuffled in.

Victoria was perched on the ...