"Camila—get up and meet your guests!" Kirsten Mortensen's voice hit the bedroom door like she’d thrown a pot. The knob rattled. Footsteps. A choir of murmurs and muffled laughter followed. Morning light cut through the blinds in uneven stripes; Camila shoved the blanket up to her chin and counted to ten like it might reset the world. "Ten doesn't work on my mother," Ezra mumbled from the hallway, a pillow over his face. "She has microwave time." A knock, ceremonious this time. Camila's stomach pinched. She swung her legs off the bed, barefoot on cold wood, and pushed open the door to a living room that had multiplied relatives overnight. Ida Alvarez stood by the mantel with the sort of grin that could rearrange a neighborhood. Mrs. Naveen from next door clapped like a starting pistol. Aunt Lila held a plate of something wrapped in foil like she was about to bribe Camila into cooperation. In the center of the room, two men sat like mismatched guests on a talk show. Victor Sanders read a book as if the room were quiet and private. He was all calm lines and easy smile—a tidy suit, a cardigan draped over his shoulders like a promise. He looked up when Camila appeared and smiled with the practiced warmth of someone who didn't startle easily. Rowan Buchanan stood the way a statue does when it decides to blink. Dark jacket, police badge clipped to his belt, jaw