{GIANNA}
Ugh, my neck is itching like crazy again.
I reach up to scratch it, eyes darting around the quiet streets of this rich-as-hell Seattle suburb, suddenly hyper-aware of my surroundings. Shit, am I about to be found again? The warning signs are all there. That familiar prickle means I've stayed too long, gotten too comfortable despite the endless godforsaken rain.
Two months on the run and my instincts are sharper than ever. Which is the only reason I'm not face down in a shallow grave right now, courtesy of my psycho uncle.
I sigh heavily as I jam my finger into the doorbell of my latest employer's mansion. Mrs. Churchill—old money, more art pieces than sense, and a peculiar obsession with having every surface gleaming like it's never been touched by human hands.
The door swings open mid-sigh, and the housekeeper's face appears with her usual 'What now?' frown. "Something wrong, Bree?"
