"Mom, if you don't let Dad move in, I'm disowning you!" Harper's voice ricocheted off the marble. High, venomous, practiced. The sort of scream that had won her every argument since she learned to cry on command. Evelyn opened her eyes. She looked at the ceiling for a beat. Then she looked at Harper. Harper posed on the rug like a spoiled queen. Cheap perfume. A silk dress that cost more than half the staff’s monthly wages. Her cheeks were flushed with indignation and entitlement. A tiara of self-righteousness sat crooked on her head. Evelyn's hand moved before thought. Fast. Clean. Slap. The sound was a precise punctuation mark. Sharp. Final. Harper's face snapped to the side. For a second, everything in the room held its breath. Maria, the maid, stopped mid-sweep. The chandelier hummed. The air tasted like metal. "Ow!" Harper's lip quivered. My, the theatrics. She pressed a hand to her cheek as if the world had ended. Evelyn watched her. She breathed once. No tremor. No apology ready on her tongue. Coldness spread through her—not the stunned cold of being struck, but something else. Something iron and clear. Flash. Memory like a stutter in a film. Her heel caught. Marble slid under her. Harper's hand shoved at her back. A scream. A body falling down the banister. Pain exploding from her hip. The last breath before everything went dark. The dark stretched and stole her whole