I barely had the front door closed when I felt it.
That presence.
The quiet, judgmental silence of someone waiting.
Then—
"Ahem."
Aria.
Standing in the hallway like a human definitio of consequences, arms folded tight, foot tapping like she'd been counting the seconds since sunrise.
"Look who finally decided to show up."
"Oh no," I mumbled. "You're already here."
"Do you know what time it is?"
"Uh… five?"
"Five-oh-seven," she said crisply. "P.M. You were supposed to be back this morning. Morning, Isabella."
Her eyes raked me up and down. "You're wearing the same clothes. And unless I've gone nose-blind, that's not your perfume."
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder. "It's not what it looks like."
"Oh?" She tilted her head. "Because what it looks like is: you spent the night — and apparently the entire day — at Adrien Walton's house and didn't think to call, text, or send up a flare."
I stayed quiet.
