Chapter 7

Thomas cradled his throbbing wrist against his chest, his face a mottled mask of humiliation and rage. He shot Ginny a venomous glare, then spun sharply on his heel.

"Follow me," he spat.

Ginny didn't glance at the medical team loading her mother onto the stretcher. She didn't look at Coretta, who stood frozen on the steps, watching her with narrowed, calculating eyes. Ginny turned and followed Thomas into the grand foyer.

They walked past the sweeping double staircases, past glittering crystal chandeliers dripping with light, down a long hallway lined with expensive oil paintings of dead Steele ancestors sneering from their gilt frames. Thomas didn't lead her to the guest wing. He took her to a narrow, uncarpeted wooden staircase hidden at the very back of the house, a servant's passage long forgotten.

They climbed three flights. The air thickened with each step, growing warmer, staler, heavy with dust. They reached the top floor-a cramped, low-ceilinged hallway. Thomas stopped in front of a heavy, scratched wooden door at the very end. He grabbed the brass knob and shoved it open. The hinges screamed.

"This is your room," Thomas said, a cruel smirk twisting his thick lips. "Fitting. For someone who brings bad luck."

He didn't wait for a response. He turned and retreated, his heavy footsteps fading down the wooden stairs.

Ginny stepped inside. It was an attic storage space, barely a room. The air was thick with dust and the stale, sweet smell of old paper and mothballs. A single narrow bed with a thin, lumpy mattress was pushed against the far wall. A rickety wooden wardrobe leaned next to a small, grime-smeared window. Cobwebs draped the corners like tattered lace.

Ginny walked to the bed and sat. The springs groaned loudly under her weight.

She didn't feel anger. She felt a profound, cooling wave of relief. The air in the grand halls below was suffocating-thick with lies, hidden cameras, and constant surveillance. Up here, in this forgotten box beneath the rafters, she was invisible. She was safe to plan.

She closed her eyes and began mapping the timeline of tomorrow night's birthday banquet, every variable slotting into place like pieces on a chessboard.

The sharp, rapid click of designer heels on the wooden floorboards shattered her concentration.

The heavy door was shoved open. It banged against the wall.

Coretta swept in. Iris followed close behind, laden with three massive, glossy shopping bags emblazoned with high-end designer logos. Coretta immediately pressed a lace handkerchief over her nose and mouth, waving her other hand in front of her face with theatrical delicacy.

"Oh, my god," Coretta said, voice muffled by the lace. "This dust. How can Grandmother make you sleep in this filth? It's inhumane."

Ginny opened her eyes. She looked at Coretta. The fake sympathy dripping from her voice was entirely betrayed by the gleam of absolute, glittering triumph in her eyes. Coretta was drinking this in, savoring every moment of Ginny in the squalor.

Coretta lowered the handkerchief and snapped her fingers at Iris. "Put them on the bed."

Iris dumped the heavy shopping bags onto the thin mattress beside Ginny.

"I couldn't bear the thought of you not having anything nice to wear to Grandmother's birthday banquet tomorrow," Coretta said, her voice dripping saccharine sweetness. "So I picked out a dress for you. It's the latest trend. Very exclusive."

Ginny sat perfectly still. She didn't look at the bags. She kept her eyes locked on Coretta's face.

Coretta reached into the largest bag, grabbed a fistful of fabric, and yanked it out.

The dress was a monstrosity. Cheap synthetic material covered entirely in garish neon-green sequins. The neckline plunged practically to the navel. The hemline was barely long enough to cover a pair of underwear. It looked like a costume for a low-rent nightclub dancer.

"Isn't it stunning?" Coretta held the dress up against her own body, striking a mock-model pose. "You're going to be the center of attention tomorrow night. Everyone will be looking at you."

Coretta smiled, waiting. She was waiting for the country girl to gasp in awe at the designer tags. She was waiting for Ginny to thank her profusely for the hideous garment that would make her the laughingstock of Silicon Valley.

The attic was dead silent. The only sound was the faint rustle of the neon sequins as Coretta held the dress aloft.

Ginny slowly stood up from the bed.

The corners of her mouth twitched upward, forming a slow, chilling smile. It didn't touch her eyes. Her eyes were black voids.

Ginny took a step forward.

Coretta's smile faltered. The air in the cramped room suddenly felt thick, oppressive, difficult to pull into the lungs.

Ginny took another step. Her posture shifted. The slight, uncertain slump of the country girl vanished, replaced by a fluid, predatory grace. She moved like a blade sliding from its sheath.

Coretta's chest seized. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to move. She took a stumbling step backward.

Ginny kept walking. Slow. Deliberate. Inexorable.

Coretta stepped back again, her heel catching on the uneven floorboards. She stumbled, her back slamming against the rough wooden wall of the attic. Trapped.

Ginny stopped less than a foot away. The physical proximity was suffocating.

Coretta's breathing hitched, rapid and shallow. She clutched the neon-green monstrosity to her chest like a shield. Her perfectly glossed lips trembled.

"What..." Coretta's voice cracked, then died. She swallowed and forced it out again, barely a squeak. "What are you doing?"