The morning sun sliced through the curtains, golden light falling across the tangle of sheets Lottie hadn't left all night. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, but the sharpness in her chest wasn't fatigue—it was something jagged and raw, an oath crystallizing between every heartbeat.
She could hear Evelyn downstairs.
Soft laughter drifted up, honeyed and warm, the sound of a perfect daughter wrapping their parents around her little finger. Lottie's fists clenched at the memory of that same voice whispering, "Goodbye, sister," as her body pitched into the abyss.
Sliding from the bed, Lottie moved silently across the room. Her bare feet sank into the plush carpet, the fibers cold and faintly damp beneath her toes. She stood at the window, watching the morning unfold like a painting: Evelyn's silhouette flitting across the yard, hair gleaming in the sunlight, their mother fussing at the garden table, her father hidden behind the newspaper. For years, Lottie had worshiped that picture. Now it only stoked the cold fire licking at her ribs.
A sharp breath hissed through her teeth as she turned from the window, her shoulder brushing the edge of the desk, jarring a stack of old notebooks. Papers slid to the floor with a dry rustle, startling her. Her pulse leapt. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the quick thud beneath her palm, and released the breath slowly.
She grabbed her notebook from the desk, the one plastered with old stickers—half-peeled unicorns, faded stars, a cracked plastic gem missing its shine. Pages fluttered as she rifled through them, her breath catching at a scribbled heart next to Evelyn's name. The sight punched her in the gut. Her throat tightened, and for a moment she couldn't breathe.
With a trembling hand, she tore the page free, the paper ripping unevenly with a sharp, angry sound. She crumpled it into a tight ball, the corners digging into her skin, and hurled it into the wastebasket. The thunk it made was too loud, ricocheting off the silent walls. For a heartbeat she froze, shoulders rigid, heart thundering.
No footsteps on the stairs.
She exhaled, knees buckling as she dropped into the chair. Grief gnawed at her, biting hard under her ribs. How had she been so blind? How had she let Evelyn coil around her like ivy, choking the light from her life?
Her gaze flicked to the mirror across the room. The girl staring back was not the same one who'd laughed beside Evelyn in matching cheer uniforms, who'd cried in her arms after their first school dance. No. This girl's eyes were sharp with something new, something lethal.
The knock on the door snapped her upright, the chair legs scraping faintly against the carpet.
"Lottie, breakfast," her mother called softly, voice muffled through the door, the familiar lilt tinged with a forced brightness.
"I'm coming," Lottie croaked, her voice raw, the syllables rasping in her throat. She cleared it, swallowing hard, and tried again. "Be right there."
Her fingers shook as she smoothed her hair, dragging them through tangled strands. She caught sight of her reflection again—eyes shadowed with sleeplessness, cheeks pale, lips pressed into a bloodless line. She forced a slow exhale, rolling her shoulders back, lifting her chin.
When she descended, the kitchen was a magazine spread: Evelyn perched at the island, golden hair brushing her shoulders, a flawless smile stretched across her lips. She turned, her expression lighting up at the sight of Lottie, and for a split second, Lottie's stomach twisted—the old reflex to trust, to love, pulling tight like a noose.
"Morning, sleepyhead," Evelyn sang, sliding a plate across the counter. "Made you toast."
Lottie's eyes flicked down. Buttered perfectly. Just the way she used to like it.
"Thanks," she murmured, fingers curling around the edge of the marble counter to steady herself.
Their father, Robert, glanced up from his paper, steel-gray eyes sharp over the rim of his reading glasses. "Finals coming up. You prepared, Charlotte?"
Evelyn's eyes sparkled over her orange juice, the corners crinkling just so. "I told Daddy you've been studying hard."
Lottie's jaw ticked. "I'll be ready."
Their mother, Grace, laughed lightly, a delicate hand brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "That's our girls. Always so supportive of each other."
Lottie swallowed the bitter taste rising in her throat. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the plate as she forced herself to sit. She picked at the toast, tearing a corner free, the buttery warmth sticking briefly to her fingers. Every smile was a blade. Every glance a performance.
When Evelyn excused herself, pressing a soft kiss to their mother's cheek, Lottie watched her glide from the room, a masterful actress leaving the stage. The air seemed to cool in her absence, the sounds of clinking silverware and rustling paper filling the silence like brittle glass.
Her fists clenched under the table, fingernails digging crescents into her palms. The scrape of her chair against the floor sounded too loud as she stood, murmuring an excuse about needing to check notes. Grace smiled faintly, distracted by the flicker of her phone screen. Robert only grunted, already immersed again in stock reports.
Back in her room, Lottie pulled out old yearbooks and photos, spreading them across the bed in a messy sprawl. Her gaze traced every captured moment: Evelyn looping her arm around Lottie's shoulders, Evelyn whispering in her ear, Evelyn standing just a little in front, always in the light.
Lottie's throat tightened, a sharp ache clawing its way up.
She yanked open a drawer, pulling out a crumpled letter—Evelyn's handwriting looping elegantly across the page, the words sweet as spun sugar. A birthday note. A promise of sisterhood forever. Lottie's fingers trembled as she traced the familiar loops, the ink faintly smudged where tears had once blurred it.
Without thinking, she reached for the candle on her desk, struck a match, and held the flame to the paper's edge. The fire hissed softly, curling the corners inward, blackening the words to ash. She watched it burn, lips parted, heart thundering. The heat kissed her fingertips, and she flinched, releasing the last smoldering scrap into the dish, chest heaving.
A sharp rap on the window jolted her from her trance. She spun, heart in her throat, only to see a bird darting away, wings beating frantically against the bright morning sky. Lottie pressed a hand to her chest, the tremble beneath her ribs slow to fade.
A knock startled her again, this time from her desk.
Amy's name flashed on her phone screen.
Her thumb hovered before she forced herself to answer, voice calm. "Hey, Amy."
"Lottie! You okay? You kinda vanished yesterday."
"I'm fine," Lottie said smoothly, masking the tremor in her tone. "Just… focused."
Amy's relief crackled through the line. "Good! We're all counting on you for the study group tomorrow!"
Lottie's mouth curved faintly, a cold twist at the corner. "Of course. See you then."
When the call ended, she exhaled sharply, shoulders sagging.
Outside, Evelyn's laughter floated up to her window, lilting and light as wind chimes. Lottie's spine stiffened. She moved to the window, watching from behind the curtain. Evelyn's hand brushed their father's arm as she spoke, head tilting just so, lips curving into that radiant smile. For a moment, the old ache twisted inside her—the girl she'd once called sister, the girl she'd once loved.
But love was a knife Evelyn wielded with expert precision.
Lottie's hands curled into fists, knuckles pale.
That would be her last tear over Evelyn Hayes.
That night, she sat cross-legged on the bed, a blanket draped around her shoulders, the phone's glow painting her face in pale light. The hum of the house quieted around her: the muted click of the thermostat, the faint creak of floorboards settling, the whisper of wind against the glass. She pored over old journals, school schedules, family events—mapping out the places where it all began to fracture. Each note sharpened her focus; each memory carved away the softness she'd once clung to.
She practiced in the mirror, molding her face into neutrality. Calm. Controlled. Unreadable. Her muscles ached from the effort, her lips twitching with the strain of suppressing every instinct to laugh, to grimace, to weep. She rehearsed every smile, every polite nod, every look of effortless composure she would need to wear when Evelyn tested her.
The clock on her nightstand ticked past midnight. Under the covers, the house wrapped in silence, Lottie lay gripping her phone, the to-do list glowing on the screen.
Exams—crush expectations. Amy—keep close, observe loyalty. Evelyn—watch, learn, bait. Family—hold mask, no cracks.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths as her thumb hovered over the last line. She could feel the tremble in her fingers, the echo of the rooftop wind screaming in her ears, the memory of cold air slicing past her skin.
She closed her eyes, jaw clenched, throat tight.
The past was a blade. But this time, she would be the one holding it.
When Evelyn came to her door that night, a silhouette in the faint hall light, Lottie feigned sleep. Her breath slowed, eyelids heavy, one hand curled loosely on the pillow. The mattress dipped slightly as Evelyn leaned in, a faint floral perfume threading through the dark.
"Goodnight, little sister," Evelyn murmured, the words brushing Lottie's ear like the brush of a knife's edge.
A faint shiver traced down Lottie's spine. Her fingers twitched under the blanket, nails pressing into her palm to anchor herself.
As Evelyn's arms wrapped around her, as the whisper fell soft against her skin, Lottie felt her heart slam once, twice, hard enough to ache. But she didn't move. She didn't breathe.
When the door clicked shut, and Evelyn's footsteps faded down the hall, Lottie's eyes snapped open.
The ceiling loomed above her, moonlight tracing pale lines across the plaster. The house was still, but her mind roared.
In the dark, a sharp smile curved her lips.
Let the game begin.