December in Chicago possesses a particular kind of malice. It is a cold that doesn’t just sit on the skin; it seeks out the bone. The wind off the lake cuts through wool like a razor, and the streetlights reflect off the black ice of the sidewalks, making the whole world look brittle and staged.
I stood at the bottom of my parents’ front steps, shivering in a thrift-store coat I had selected with the precision of a method actor. The buttons were mismatched—one tortoiseshell, one black plastic. The hem was fraying just enough to suggest a threadbare existence. It smelled faintly of someone else’s menthol cigarettes and cheap laundry detergent, a scent that clung to me like a second skin.
In my hands, I clutched a purse that told a tragedy. It was a fake designer bag with scuffed corners and a zipper I had deliberately jammed with a pair of pliers. It was a prop. A shield. A costume designed to tell a story before I even opened my mouth.
Inside the house, warm, golden light spilled through the heavy velvet curtains. I could hear the muffled sounds of a party in full swing—the clink of crystal, the roar of laughter, the rise and fall of voices that always grew louder when there was someone to crown.
Tonight, the crown belonged to Madison.
My sister.
