IMOGEN'S POV
I watched Elijah take another bite of the French toast, syrup glistening on his lips. He had no idea what I'd ground into the batter while he slept. The pills had been easy enough to crush, leftover antihistamines from Deborah's nighttime stash. A double dose meant to knock a person out cold. His wife's remedy for sleepless nights would be his undoing.
The kitchen felt too bright, too normal for what was about to happen. Sunlight streamed through the windows like nothing had changed. Like my parents weren't still dead because of the man sitting across from me, chewing thoughtfully and telling me how incredible my cooking was.
A minute later, footsteps echoed down the hallway. Lana appeared in the doorway, her face set in hard lines. She looked between Elijah and me like she was seeing something that disgusted her.
