LIVIA

I skidded to a halt in the kitchen, my chest heaving, my hair a wild mess of half-styled tangles.

My mother stood by the counter, a wet rag in her hand, staring at me with a mixture of confusion and mild irritation.

The scent of bleach and stale pine cleaner hung thick in the air, cloying and heavy, stinging my nostrils.

"What is it? Why are you shouting, Livia?" She pulled her apron tighter around her waist, her eyes narrowing as they raked over my attire. "And why are you dressed ...