The room was freezing. It was essentially a glorified closet at the end of the hall, the one place in the manor where the central heating never seemed to reach. Eva dropped her bag on the narrow bed and went straight to the desk.

She pulled open the drawer where she kept her passport and emergency cash.

Empty.

Eva stared at the wood grain at the bottom of the drawer. A slow, hot anger began to spread from her stomach to her chest. She pulled the drawer out completely, checking the space behind it. Nothing.

The door behind her opened without a knock.

Dianne stood there. She tossed a bundle of black fabric onto the bed.

Wear this, she said. One of the girls called in sick. You are filling in.

Where is my passport? Eva asked. She didn't turn around.

Dianne inspected her fingernails. Safekeeping. Arthur agrees that you have been too flighty lately. You need to learn some responsibility. You get it back when the last guest leaves.

Eva turned slowly. The bundle on the bed was an old maid's uniform. It was polyester, cheap, and humiliating.

No, Eva said.

Dianne's eyes narrowed. Excuse me?

I said no.

Dianne took a step forward, her hand raising instinctively. It was a muscle memory for both of them.

Eva caught Dianne's wrist in mid-air.

Her grip was iron. Years of hauling equipment and tightening valves in the lab had given Eva hands that were stronger than they looked. She squeezed.

Dianne gasped, her eyes widening in shock. Let go of me.

Eva shoved her hand away. Dianne stumbled back, rubbing her wrist.

I am done playing your game, Dianne.

Eva picked up the uniform. She walked over to the desk, picked up a pair of shears she used for wire cutting, and drove the blades into the fabric. The sound of tearing polyester was loud in the small room. She shredded it until it was nothing but rags.

Dianne watched, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. You little bitch, she whispered.

Eva went to her closet. She pushed aside the few flannel shirts and pulled out a garment bag in the back. It was a black slip dress she had bought at a thrift store in the Village. It was simple, cut on the bias, with thin spaghetti straps.

She stripped off her coat and sweater and pulled the dress on. It fit her perfectly, skimming her body without clinging.

She turned to Dianne. I am going downstairs. And I am going to enjoy the party.

She walked past her stepmother, leaving the shredded uniform on the floor.

The main hall was crowded now. The noise level had risen to a roar of chatter and clinking glass. Eva moved through the crowd. She kept her head high. She wore no jewelry, no makeup, but her posture was so rigid, her expression so detached, that people moved out of her way.

Arthur Mcclain was standing near the fireplace, holding court with a group of bankers. When he saw Eva, his smile faltered. He looked like he had swallowed a lemon.

Isobel spotted her from across the room. She said something to the man next to her-Jimmy Noel, Baxter's nephew-and started walking toward Eva. She was holding a full glass of red wine.

Eva saw it coming. It was clumsy. Predictable.

As Isobel passed, she feigned a stumble. Her hip checked a passing waiter, and the wine in her glass launched forward.

Eva didn't gasp. She simply sidestepped. It was a smooth, calculated movement, like a boxer slipping a jab.

The wine splashed onto the Persian rug behind her.

Oops, Isobel shrieked. She pointed a finger at Eva. She pushed me! Did you see that? She pushed me!

The conversation in the immediate vicinity died. Heads turned.

Dianne materialized from the crowd, seizing the moment. Eva! How dare you? This is your sister's night!

Arthur marched over, his face purple. Apologize, he hissed at Eva. Now. Or so help me god, you will be on the street tonight.

Eva looked at the red stain on the carpet. Then she looked at the faces surrounding her. The sneers. The judgment. The absolute certainty that she was the villain in their perfect little world.

She reached into her small clutch. Her fingers touched the paper.

She pulled it out.

She stepped up to Arthur. He was a tall man, but in that moment, he seemed small. She took the folded paper and pressed it against the lapel of his tuxedo.

Apologize? Eva said softly. Her voice was calm, terrifyingly reasonable. I don't think so, Arthur.

She tapped the paper against his chest.

Open it.

Arthur swatted at her hand. Get that trash out of my face.

Look at the name, Eva said. Look at who your son-in-law is.

Something in her tone stopped him. The absolute lack of fear. He snatched the paper from her hand and unfolded it aggressively.

Dianne was still shouting something about a cleaning bill. Isobel was crying fake tears into a napkin.

Arthur looked at the document. He squinted. Then his eyes went wide. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The blood rushed from his face, leaving him a sickly shade of gray. Then, just as quickly, the red returned, darker this time.

His hands started to shake. The paper rattled.

Arthur looked up at Eva. His eyes were filled with a mixture of horror and sudden, blinding greed.

Where did you get this? he whispered.

Arthur crushed the paper against his chest, hiding it from the view of the guests. He looked around wildly, sweat beading on his upper lip.

Everybody out, he muttered. Then, louder. Dianne, Isobel, Eva. Study. Now.

But the guests- Dianne started.

Shut up! Arthur roared.

The room went silent. Arthur grabbed Eva by the elbow. His grip was painful, but she didn't flinch. He dragged her toward the heavy oak doors of his study. Dianne and Isobel followed, looking confused and terrified.

Arthur slammed the door and locked it. The music from the party was muffled to a dull thrum.

He threw the paper onto his mahogany desk.

Explain this, he demanded. He was breathing hard.

Eva rubbed her arm where he had grabbed her. It is a marriage certificate, Arthur. I assume you know how to read.

Isobel snatched the paper off the desk. She scanned it, her brow furrowing. Then she let out a screech that sounded like a braking train.

Baxter Noel? She looked at Eva, her face twisting in disgust. You forged this. You are sick. You are actually mentally ill.

It has a raised seal, Eva said, leaning against the bookshelf. Go ahead. Call the clerk in Nevada.

Dianne looked at the paper over Isobel's shoulder. Her hand went to her throat. This... this isn't possible. He doesn't even know who you are. He is... he is Baxter Noel.

Arthur was pacing. He ran a hand through his thinning hair. He wasn't looking at Eva with anger anymore. He was looking at her like she was a winning lottery ticket he had almost thrown in the trash.

If this is real, he muttered. If this is real, the merger... the debt...

He spun toward Eva. When is he coming?

Eva blinked. What?

To pick you up. When is he coming? Why didn't you tell us? We could have prepared.

Eva realized then how deep the delusion ran in this house. Arthur didn't care about the how or the why. He only saw the profit.

He likes his privacy, Eva lied. It came easily. She needed time.

Dianne's demeanor changed instantly. She smoothed her dress. She forced a smile that looked like a rictus of pain. Well. That explains why you have been so distant, darling. You were... protecting him.

Isobel threw the paper back on the desk. I don't believe it. Jimmy would have told me.

Jimmy doesn't know what color his own socks are, Eva said.

A knock came at the door.

Mr. Mcclain? It was Henderson. His voice was trembling.

What! Arthur barked.

Sir. Security at the gate says... says Mr. Noel's motorcade just pulled in.

The silence in the study was absolute. You could hear the dust settle.

Arthur let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He is here. He is actually here.

He turned to Eva. He grabbed her shoulders, his hands shaking. Fix your hair. You look like a ghost. Dianne, get her some lipstick. Jesus Christ, why are you wearing that dress?

Eva felt a cold pit open in her stomach. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to be here.

Baxter wasn't here for her. He couldn't be. He didn't know she existed. He was here for business. Or for Jimmy. Or to buy the house out from under them.

If she walked out there, and he looked right through her... or worse, if he recognized her name as the enemy combatant in his lawsuit...

But she had no choice. The lie was already out of the bottle.

Arthur threw the door open. Come on! Everyone, look alive!

They walked out into the foyer just as the massive front doors swung open.

The wind blew in, cold and sharp.

Three men in dark suits entered first. Security. They scanned the room with practiced indifference.

Then, Baxter Noel walked in.

He was taller than Eva remembered. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him with surgical precision. He didn't look at the flowers. He didn't look at the crowd. He walked like he owned the oxygen in the room and was just letting everyone else borrow it.

The silence in the hall was heavy. It was the silence of predators entering a grazing field.

Arthur practically ran down the steps. His dignity was gone, replaced by a fawning desperation that made Eva want to look away.

Mr. Noel! Arthur said, extending a hand. What an honor. An absolute honor.

Baxter stopped. He looked at Arthur's hand for a second too long before giving it a brief, firm shake. He didn't smile. His eyes were like chips of flint.

Mcclain, Baxter said. His voice was a low baritone that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. I was in the area. Jimmy mentioned the engagement.

Of course, of course! Arthur beamed. He gestured wildly behind him. You know the family.

Isobel stepped forward. She had composed herself, pushing her chest out, putting on her best socialite smile. Baxter, she purred. It is so good to see you again.

Baxter glanced at her. He didn't blink. Have we met?

Isobel's smile faltered. At the... the fundraiser? Last month?

Baxter looked away, dismissing her entirely. He scanned the room. He looked bored. He looked dangerous.

Eva stood in the shadow of the staircase. She didn't move. She held her breath.

Arthur cleared his throat. And, uh, my other daughter...

He turned to gesture at Eva.

Eva stepped out of the shadow.

Baxter's gaze landed on her.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. He looked at her face. He looked at the black slip dress. He looked at her bare shoulders.

There was no recognition in his eyes. No spark of memory.

But there was something else. A flicker of interest. The kind of interest a wolf shows when it spots movement in the brush. A sense of déjà vu that he couldn't quite place, nagging at the edge of his perception.

Eva felt her heart hammering against her ribs.

Arthur was sweating. Is... is your wife not with you tonight? he asked, his voice trembling with the weight of the gamble.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

Baxter turned his head slowly to look at Arthur.

My wife? he repeated. The word sounded foreign in his mouth.

Arthur paled. Uh, yes. Eva said...

Baxter laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. "I am not currently traveling with a wife, Mcclain. And certainly not one you've met."

The air left the room.

Isobel let out a gasp of triumph. Dianne closed her eyes. Arthur looked like he was having a stroke.

Baxter turned back to Eva. He took a step toward her.

He didn't know who she was. He thought she was just another Mcclain daughter trying to climb the ladder, or perhaps a scam artist trying to leverage a rumor.

Eva didn't wait for the explosion. She turned and walked toward the French doors leading to the terrace. She needed air. She needed to escape before Arthur killed her.

She pushed the doors open and stepped out into the cold night. She walked to the far end of the stone balcony, leaning against the balustrade, gasping for breath.

The door opened behind her.

She smelled him before she saw him. Cedar. Expensive tobacco. And the crisp scent of winter air clinging to wool.

She turned.

Baxter was standing there. He had followed her.

He took a silver case from his pocket and tapped out a cigarette. He didn't light it. He just rolled it between his fingers.

Nice try inside, he said. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the dark lawn.

Eva wrapped her arms around herself. I wasn't trying anything.

He turned his head. His eyes locked onto hers. You are the sister, right? The one they keep in the attic?

Something like that.

He took a step closer. He was too big for the space. His presence was overwhelming.

Your father seems to think we are related, Baxter said softly. He leaned in, invading her personal space. Why would he think that?

Eva looked up at him. She saw the hard line of his jaw. The scar near his temple that the magazines usually photoshopped out.

Because we are, she said.

She reached into her dress. It was a risky move. His eyes tracked her hand, his body tensing like he expected a weapon.

She pulled out the paper. She unfolded it and held it up.

The moonlight hit the page.

Baxter looked at it. He didn't take it at first. He just read.

His expression didn't change. Not a muscle twitched.

Then, he looked at her. Really looked at her.

How much? he asked.

Eva blinked. What?

How much do you want? Baxter asked. His voice was bored again. For the forgery. It is good work. The seal looks authentic. So, how much to make it go away? Ten thousand? Twenty?

Eva felt like he had slapped her.

It is real, she said.

Baxter chuckled darkly. He moved so fast she didn't see it coming. He pinned her against the stone railing. He wasn't hurting her, but he was caging her in with his arms.

Listen to me, he whispered. His face was inches from hers. I don't get blackout drunk. I don't make mistakes. And I definitely don't marry women who look like...

He trailed off. His eyes dropped to her lips, then back up.

Like what? Eva challenged.

Like trouble, he finished.