The apartment smelled of mildew and boiled cabbage. Bronwyn dripped water onto the linoleum floor.

Chloe was sitting on the couch, chewing her fingernails. She jumped up when Bronwyn walked in.

"Where were you? I've been calling."

"I went to ask for help," Bronwyn said, shivering. "It didn't work."

Chloe looked down. "The landlord came by. He said if we don't pay the arrears by Tuesday, he's changing the locks."

Bronwyn closed her eyes. Eviction. Prison. Bankruptcy. The trifecta.

"And the lawyers... the ones I called... they want a fifty thousand retainer just to look at the case."

Bronwyn walked past Chloe into her bedroom. She pulled a Pelican case from under her bed, a case that held a portable, military-grade tissue scanner she'd acquired in a previous life. It was worth a fortune on the black market. She took out her burner phone and sent a single, encrypted text: "Scanner for sale. Need cash. Now."

An hour later, a courier met her in a back alley, handing her a thick envelope of cash in exchange for the case. Four hundred dollars. Enough for a trip, but not nearly enough for bail.

She walked over to the table and sat down. She stared at the water stain on the ceiling. It looked like a map of a country that didn't exist.

She pulled Chloe's laptop toward her. She opened a browser.

She typed: Kidney donation price black market.

Chloe gasped. She slammed the laptop shut. "Are you insane? That's illegal! You could die!"

"What else do I have to sell?" Bronwyn shouted, the dam breaking. "My dignity? Nobody wants it! My body? I'm worth nothing, Chloe! Nothing!"

They hugged each other, crying in the damp, dark living room.

When the tears ran out, Bronwyn felt a cold, hard resolve settle in her gut.

She had one card left. The card she swore she would never play.

She went into her bedroom. She knelt down and dragged a dusty box from under the bed.

Inside was a set of unmarked, non-reflective surgical scalpels made of a matte black ceramic composite. And a photo. A photo of a massive estate in Long Island. Tucked behind the photo was a tarnished silver locket, engraved with a crest. A serpent wrapped around a staff.

She was the bastard daughter of the Phelps dynasty. The secret Elsworth Phelps had paid her mother to keep hidden.

She put on a black dress. It was cheap, but it was clean.

"Where are you going?" Chloe asked.

"To hell," Bronwyn said. She put the scalpels in her purse. "Or heaven. Depends on who answers the door."

She called an Uber. Destination: The Hamptons.

The fare was $420. Almost every last dollar she had just made.

She got in the car. The rain beat against the roof like a drumroll for an execution.

The iron gates of the Phelps Estate were taller than Bronwyn remembered. She pressed the buzzer.

"Private property," a voice crackled.

"I'm Bronwyn Brewer. Tell Elsworth Phelps I brought the Silver Lancet."

Silence. Long, heavy silence.

Then, the gates groaned and swung open.

The driveway was a mile long. The house at the end was a palace of light. There were cars parked out front-Bentleys, Rolls Royces. A party.

The butler met her at the door. He looked at her wet hair and cheap dress with open disgust. "The study. Don't touch anything."

Bronwyn walked through the foyer. In the living room, a woman was holding court. She was blonde, beautiful, and wearing diamonds that could feed a country.

Buffy Patrick. The adopted daughter. The "perfect" heir. The Imposter.

Buffy saw her. Her smile faltered. A flicker of recognition, quickly masked by disdain, crossed her face. She recognized the jawline, the eyes, from old forbidden photographs. "Who are you? How did you get in?"

Bronwyn walked past her. "I'm here to see Elsworth."

Buffy stepped in front of her. "Grandfather is ill. He isn't seeing charity cases. Security!"

The door at the top of the stairs opened. Elsworth Phelps stood there, leaning on a cane. He looked old. frail. But his eyes were still sharp.

He looked at Bronwyn. He saw her mother's face.

"Let her up," he rasped.

Bronwyn walked up the stairs, feeling Buffy's hatred burning into her back.

In the study, Elsworth sat behind his massive desk. "You came back. Money run out?"

Bronwyn placed the case of scalpels on the desk. "I don't want money. I want you to save Leo."

"The boy who isn't even blood?" Elsworth sneered. "Why would I waste resources on him?"

"Because I can save your life," Bronwyn said.

Elsworth paused. "What?"

"I know about the aneurysm," Bronwyn said. "I saw the tremor in your hand. I saw the micro-seizures in your facial muscles."

"No one will operate," Elsworth said. "It's inoperable."

"I will," Bronwyn said.

Elsworth laughed. A dry, hacking sound. "You? You didn't even go to medical school."

"I have the gift," she said. "You know I do. It's in the blood." As she spoke, Elsworth's face went slack. The cane he was holding clattered to the floor. His left arm twitched, and a low gurgling sound came from his throat.

The door opened.

"Sorry to interrupt," a deep voice said.

Jennings Bowen walked in. He held a glass of scotch. He looked from Elsworth to Bronwyn, his eyebrows shooting up.

"Well," Jennings said. "The plot thickens."

Jennings leaned against the doorframe, swirling his drink. "Am I interrupting a family reunion?"

Buffy ran up the stairs, breathless. She grabbed Jennings' arm. "Jennings, darling, thank God you're here. This trash is harassing Grandfather, she's probably poisoned him!"

Bronwyn felt a sharp stab in her chest seeing Buffy touch him. His fiancée. Of course they were. They were the same species.

"He's stroking out, you idiot," Bronwyn snapped, already moving. "It's the aneurysm. It's dissecting."

Jennings looked at Bronwyn, then at the gasping old man on the floor. "Is that so? The vet tech is a neurosurgeon now?"

"Get him on the desk. Now! And get me my kit!" Bronwyn commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument.

"She's insane!" Buffy shrieked. "She's trying to kill you! Call an ambulance!"

Jennings pushed off the doorframe. He walked over to Elsworth, checked his pulse, and saw the tell-tale sign of facial drooping. He looked at Bronwyn's hands. The hands he had seen inside a man's abdomen just hours ago.

"Do it," Jennings said.

The room went silent.

"What?" Buffy gasped.

"An ambulance won't make it in time, and you know it," Jennings said, his eyes locked on Bronwyn's. "I saw her work today. She's not a vet tech. She's a surgeon."

Elsworth was fading. He looked from Jennings to Bronwyn, a silent plea in his terrified eyes. He was a gambling man. And he was terrified of dying.

Buffy's bodyguard handed Bronwyn her case of scalpels. She opened it, the black ceramic instruments gleaming under the lamplight. Without hesitation, she used the edge of the heavy oak desk to steady his head, took a scalpel, and made a precise, shallow incision at the base of his skull to relieve the pressure.

Jennings watched her. There was respect in his eyes now. Reluctant, but real.

"You have ten minutes until he bleeds out internally," Jennings whispered as she worked. "Don't disappoint me. I'm betting on you."

Bronwyn didn't look up from her work, her hands a blur of terrifying grace.

Inside, Buffy was already on the phone in the corner. "Victoria? It's Buffy. She's back. We need to do something."

Jennings stood by the desk, watching Bronwyn save the life of the man he was planning to ruin. He pulled out his phone.

"Get me everything on the underground surgeon known as 'The Ghost.' Cross-reference any known activity with Bronwyn Brewer's timeline for the last five years," he ordered his assistant. "And find out what my fiancée, Buffy Patrick, knows about her."

Bronwyn worked on, thinking she had just made a deal for her brother's life.