“You’re useless,” a voice snapped.

It was Sloane. But it wasn’t the voice she used at galas. It wasn’t the sultry, sophisticated tone she used when asking for my credit card. It was guttural, sharp, and dripping with venom.

Then came a thud—heavy, dull, like meat hitting wood.

I froze. My blood turned to slush in my veins.

“Please…” My mother’s voice followed, small and trembling, a sound I hadn’t heard since the days the debt collectors used to bang on our apartment door. “I’m trying, Sloane. I didn’t mean to spill it.”