* SISTER REVENGE*

The music was too loud. That was the first thing Anna Wright remembered later. Not the lights, not the cameras, not even Clara's face — just the bass thumping so hard it made her ribs vibrate. It was after the Lacroix after-party. The rooftop of the Obsidian Hotel, 43 floors up. Lost Angelo's wind was cold as ever. Everyone who was anyone was there — designers, photographers, models in dresses that cost more than rent. And Clara. Clara Wright stood on a stool by the edge of the balcony. Not close. _On_ the edge. Her red silk dress was blowing like blood in the wind. Her heels were off, lying neatly beside her, like she had taken them off politely before dying. Anna saw her from the bar. "Clara?" She shouted over the music. Clara didn't turn. Anna pushed through. Someone spilled champagne on her white hoodie — her stupid big red hoodie she always wore to these fancy parties because she hated fancy parties. Clara had laughed at her when she arrived. "You look like a little girl lost, Ann." Now Clara wasn't laughing. She was swaying. Anna was three steps away when Clara looked down. Not at Anna — down at the street. 43 floors down. The city lights looked like spilled glitter. "Clara don't!.. Don't you know it's dangerous?.. come on get down?" Anna grabbed her wrist. Clara's skin was freezing. Her eyes were wrong. Glassy, unfocused, pupils huge. She wasn't drunk. Clara never got drunk. Clara sipped wine and judged people who got drunk. "Anna?" Clara whispered, like she didn't know her. "He said it would stop spinning. He said it would all stop." "Who? Who said?" Anna pulled harder. Clara was dead weight, leaning out. That's when Clara smiled. A sad, terrible, empty smile. "Tell him I'm sorry I kept it," she said. And she let go. She didn't jump. She just... slipped. Her hand slid out of Anna's. Anna screamed — a raw sound that finally cut the music. Everyone turned as Clara fell. No scream from her. Just the red dress disappearing into the dark. The thud never came. 43 floors is too far to hear. Silence. Then chaos. Anna was on her knees at the edge by the edge of the balcony, her hoodie hanging off the ledge, staring at the spot where her sister had been. Her sister, her best friend, her only family since their parents died. The supermodel. The one who was supposed to be invincible. Daniel Hayes found her there. Clara's husband. He was in a perfect black suit, not a hair out of place. "Anna, move away from the edge," he said calmly. Too calmly. Police came. Ambulance. Statements. The detective, a tired woman named Inspector Becky, kept saying "suicide" like it was a fact. "Your sister had a history of anxiety, correct? Model pressure?" "No," Anna said. "No she didn't. She was happy. She was— she told me she had news. Good news!" Daniel put a hand on her shoulder. His hand was warm. Clara's had been ice cold. "She had kept her distant lately," Daniel said quietly to the inspector, loud enough for Anna to hear. "We had been fighting. I think... I think she was overwhelmed." Anna stared at him. "You were not fighting. What are you talking about?" Inspector Becky closed her notebook. "Miss Wright, toxicology will take 48 hours. But witnesses say she was unsteady, talking to herself. There was an almost empty wine glass on the ledge. I'm sorry. Sometimes the pressure..." Police Becky said. It wasn't suicide. Anna knew it in her bones. Clara would never take off her heels neatly before jumping. Clara was obsessed with her shoes. She would never leave them lined up like that. Later, at 3 AM, in Clara's penthouse apartment that now felt like a tomb, Anna couldn't sleep. She wore Clara's perfume to feel close. She opened Clara's laptop. Password: ANNAC-2009 — the year Anna was born. In the search history: "Can Zolpidem cause suicidal thoughts?" "How long does Stilnox stay in system?" "Can you get pregnant after—" The page closed. And a message popped up on Clara's iCloud. From a contact saved as S. S: _You need to get rid of it. Now. You know what this will do to me. To us._ Clara: _It's not an it. It's a baby. It's mine._ S: _Don't be stupid, Clara. You know Daniel can't have kids. If this comes out, we're finished. Both of us._ The messages were from two weeks ago. Anna's hands shook. Clara was pregnant. Daniel Hayes was infertile — Anna knew, Clara had cried to her about it a year ago after IVF failed. So the baby wasn't Daniel's. Clara had a secret lover. And that lover wanted the baby gone. Anna looked out the window at the city that had swallowed her sister. The music from that rooftop was still pounding in her ears. She grabbed her sketchbook — the one she always carried — and wrote one sentence on the first blank page: _I WILL FIND WHO KILLED YOU._ She wasn't a model anymore. From that second, she was an investigator. Self-trained, broke, angry, and with nothing to lose. She picked up her phone and called the modeling agency. "I quit," she said. The agent laughed. "Anna, you're emotional—" "I QUIT!" she screamed, and hung up.