The television was off. Lily noticed that first—the black screen swallowing the room's warm light. Then she noticed her mother's hands. Arianne's fingers rested against her knee, still but not relaxed. The way they pressed—just slightly, just enough to dimple the fabric—told Lily something was different.
Outside, the last daylight had gone gray against the windows.
Arianne didn't rush. She crossed to the couch and sat, one leg over the other. Her breathing was even. Too even. Lily watched her mother's throat. A small pulse, fast.
Franz was already there, one hand resting along the back of the couch. His posture said relaxed. His eyes said otherwise. He was watching the hallway.
