The rain in Northport didn't fall; it shattered. It struck the asphalt like shards of glass, cold and indifferent, washing away the warmth of the gala Evelyn had just fled.
Evelyn Vance lay on her side, her cheek pressed against the wet pavement. The world was a rhythmic pulse of crimson and charcoal. Every breath felt like swallowing jagged stones. Somewhere nearby, the high-pitched whine of a luxury sedan's engine was idling, its headlights cutting through the downpour like the eyes of a predator.
"Is she dead yet?"
The voice was light, melodic, and sickeningly familiar. It belonged to Sarah—Evelyn's stepsister. The girl who had worn Evelyn's hand-me-downs for a decade while plotting to take her life.
"Almost," a man replied. Marcus.
Evelyn's fiancé—the man who had proposed to her on the deck of a yacht just six months ago—stepped into her narrowing field of vision. He didn't look like a murderer. He looked like the golden boy of the Vance Group, his tuxedo pristine, his hair only slightly ruffled by the wind. He knelt, not to help her, but to retrieve the heavy diamond engagement ring that had slipped from her bloodied finger.
"You really were too easy to fool, Eve," Marcus whispered, his voice devoid of the warmth he had used to lure her into his bed. "Did you actually think I'd spend my life tied to a 'shy, creative soul' like you? I need an empire. And your father left the keys to you."
Sarah stepped up beside him, leaning into his shoulder. She was wearing the Vance family heirloom—a sapphire pendant that had belonged to Evelyn's mother. "Don't be so mean, Marcus. She gave us exactly what we wanted. The signatures are on the transfer deeds. She's served her purpose."
Sarah laughed, a bright, tinkling sound that echoed against the brick walls of the alleyway. To anyone else, it was the sound of a socialite at a party. To Evelyn, it was the sound of the grave.
Evelyn tried to speak, but her lungs were filled with fluid. A thick, metallic taste coated her tongue. Frozen rage. It was the only thing keeping her heart beating. She had been so blind. She had played the role of the dutiful daughter, the loving sister, and the supportive fiancée, while they had been sharpening their knives in the dark.
"Let's go," Marcus said, standing up and pocketing the ring. "The 'drunk driver' will be reported in ten minutes. We need to be back at the gala for our alibi."
They turned away. They didn't even look back. The taillights of the car faded into the mist, leaving Evelyn in the crushing silence of the rain.
As her vision began to tunnel into a pinprick of white, Evelyn felt a strange sensation. The cold was no longer biting; it was numbing. The pain was receding, replaced by a roar in her ears. It wasn't the sound of the city or the storm.
It was a clock. Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound grew deafening, vibrating through the pavement and into her bones. The world didn't fade to black; it exploded into a blinding, celestial white.
If there is a God, Evelyn screamed in the silence of her mind, let me go back. Let me be the monster they think I am. Give me the strength to burn their world to ashes.
The roar of the clock reached a crescendo, a sound like a thousand gears grinding together, and then—absolute, terrifying silence