The front door slammed downstairs before he could say more.

“Is anyone even awake in this house?” Sienna’s voice, thick and slurred, carried up the stairwell.

“Why is it pitch black in here?”

Arthur went rigid.

He adjusted his collar, muttered something about finishing our conversation later, and moved down the hallway toward the stairs with the too-careful walk of a man rearranging himself back into respectability.

A minute later Sienna shoved my door open without knocking, reeking of gin, her makeup smeared, and dropped onto the foot of my bed.

“God, what is wrong with everyone tonight,” she said, not looking at me.