* SISTER REVENGE*

*EPISODE 2: QUITTING THE RUNWAY*

The modeling agency didn't believe her.

"Anna, darling, grief makes people crazy," said Madame Elise, over the phone, her French accent sharp as glass. "You can't quit. You have Milan in three days. Chanel wants you. CHANEL."

"I don't care if God wants me," Anna said. She was sitting on the floor of Clara's closet, surrounded by dresses that still smelled like her. She was still in that same red hoodie from last night. It had a champagne stain now.

"Clara would want you to continue," Elise tried. "She built this agency with you."

"Clara is dead," Anna said flatly. "And no one is asking why."

She hung up. Then she blocked the number.

Her phone buzzed instantly. Daniel Hayes.

_Anna, come to the house. We need to talk about the funeral arrangements. And Clara's will._

Will. Clara had a will? She was 27.

Anna didn't answer. She was staring at the white powder in the wine glass she found in Clara's tote bag. It wasn't the glass from the roof — the police took that one. This was a different glass, from Clara's favorite bar, "Noir", tucked in her bag like she meant to hide it.

She scraped a little of the powder into a small plastic bag she found in Clara's makeup drawer. Evidence.

Her hands were shaking so hard she spilled some. That powder had been in Clara's drink. That powder had made her eyes glassy. That powder had made her say "He said it would stop spinning."

He. Who was he?

The diary. Clara kept a paper diary even though she was a supermodel. She said phones could be hacked, but paper never lied. Anna had mocked her for it.

Now she tore the apartment apart looking for it. Under the mattress. In the shoe boxes. In the false bottom of her jewelry case where she kept her emergency $10,000.

There. A small black Moleskine, duct-taped to the back of her vanity mirror.

Anna ripped it open. Most pages were boring — shoots, diets, fights with Daniel.

Then, March 14th: _S came to the studio again. He says he loves me. I think I love him too. I hate myself. I'm still married._

March 20th: _I told S I'm late. He went white. He said it can't be his. Liar. It is his. I know it._

March 28th: _Daniel knows something. He keeps looking at my phone. Vanessa called again. She thinks I don't know about her. Stupid girl._

April 1st: _Two lines. Oh God. Two lines. I'm keeping it. Even if it ruins me. Even if S leaves. It's mine._

April 2nd — the day before she died: _Met S at Noir. He was angry. He put something in my wine when I went to bathroom. I saw it. I drank it anyway because I wanted to show him I'm not scared. Now the entire room is spinning. He said "it will stop spinning". He took my glass. I took another glass as proof. I feel like jumping._

Anna stopped breathing.

She read that last entry three times. The words blurred with her tears.

Clara SAW him drug her. She drank it anyway. And she took the glass as proof.

This wasn't suicide. This was murder. Slow, cruel murder.

Anna took a photo of every page. Then she hid the diary again, exactly where she found it.

Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

_Stop looking, little girl. Some sisters are better off dead. - S_

The plastic bag with the powder fell from her hands.

He knew she had the glass.

Anna looked at the window. A black SUV was parked across the street, engine running. She couldn't see the driver.

She wasn't safe anymore.

But she wasn't scared. She was furious. That cold, clear fury that makes you smarter, not weaker.

She grabbed her sketchbook. On the page where she wrote "I WILL FIND WHO KILLED YOU" she added under it in big angry letters:

_S. SIMON? STEVEN? SAM?_

She flipped to a new page and started drawing — from memory — the man she saw near Clara at the party last night. Tall, handsome, expensive watch, smirking at Clara from the shadows.

She didn't know it yet, but she had just drawn Simon Cross.

And outside, the black SUV's lights turned on.