My twin sister walked into my bridal shop covered in bruises—and when she whispered who had done it, I realized the attacker lived in my own home.

Madison tried to pull backward, but my grip on her wrist was an iron vise.

Panic—raw, animalistic panic—finally pierced through the haze of bourbon in her eyes. For the first time in twenty-one years, Madison Whitaker was facing someone who didn't owe her father an apology, someone who wasn't intimidated by Sarah’s ghost, and someone who possessed twice her physical strength.

"Let go of me!" she shrieked, swinging her free right fist toward my temple.

I didn't flinch. I ducked beneath the wild, undisciplined haymaker, stepped behind her right hip, and used her own forward momentum to drive her face-first into the antique writing desk.

The brass lamp clattered to the floor. Madison let out a sharp wheeze as her ribs hit the edge of the mahogany surface—a mirror image of the impact Claire had suffered the night before.

I pinned her right arm behind her back, pressing my forearm firmly against the base of her neck.

"Don't move," I said, my voice dangerously calm, barely louder than a whisper. "If you kick, I’ll dislocate your shoulder. And unlike you, I won't lie about how it happened."

"Dad!" Madison screamed at the top of her lungs, thrashing wildly against the desk. "Dad! Help me! Lena’s trying to kill me! Dad!"

"Scream louder," I instructed, pressing down just enough to keep her immobilized. "I want him to hear you. In fact, I’m counting on it."

Heavy, frantic footsteps thudded across the first-floor ceiling.

"Madison?" Ethan’s voice drifted up the stairwell, thick with the grogginess of sleeping pills and sheer confusion. "Lena? What’s going on up there?"

"Dad!" Madison shrieked, her voice turning into that high-pitched, childish wail she used whenever she needed a blank check. "She’s hurting me! She’s breaking my arm! Help!"

The guest room door was shoved wide open.

Ethan stood in the doorway, breathing hard, wearing his gray flannel pajama bottoms and a faded Savannah preservation t-shirt. His eyes darted around the dimly lit room—the fallen lamp, the wooden mallet lying near the bed, and his wife holding his daughter pinned to the desk like a common street thief.

"Lena!" Ethan gasped, stumbling forward with his hands raised. "My God! What are you doing? Let her go! Let go of her right now!"

He reached out to pull my shoulder away.

"Don't touch me, Ethan," I said, turning my head to fix him with a glare so lethal he stopped dead in his tracks, his hands hovering in mid-air. "Look at the floor. Look at what your daughter brought into this room to use on my sister."

Ethan looked down. His eyes landed on the heavy wooden meat tenderizer lying on the Persian rug.

"She was... she was holding that?" Ethan stammered, his gaze darting between the weapon and Madison’s tear-streaked face. "Maddie... what were you doing with that?"

"She’s lying, Dad!" Madison sobbed into the wood of the desk, crocodile tears flowing instantly. "I came up here to ask Claire why she left her wet laundry in the hall! Lena was hiding behind the door! She attacked me from behind! She’s crazy, Dad! She’s trying to get rid of me so she can have the house to herself!"

Ethan’s face went white. The familiar, exhausting machinery of his denial began to grind into gear. He looked at me, his eyes begging me to give him an excuse, an out, anything that would allow him to sweep this back under the rug.

"Lena, please," Ethan begged softly. "Just let her up. We can talk about this in the morning. If there's tension between you two, we can go to family therapy—"

"Family therapy?"

I let out a cold, sharp laugh that cut through the humid room like a scalpel.

I released Madison’s arm and stepped back, letting her scramble off the desk. Madison immediately hurled herself behind Ethan, clutching the back of his t-shirt, pointing an accusing finger at me.

"Arrest her, Dad!" Madison wailed. "Call Sheriff Davis! Have her thrown out!"

"Therapy won't fix this, Ethan," I said evenly. I reached up and pulled Claire’s torn cardigan off my shoulders, letting it fall onto the mattress. Beneath it, I wore my own black linen work shirt.

Ethan blinked, frowning. "Why were you wearing Claire’s sweater?"

"Because Claire isn't here, Ethan," I said. "Claire has been hiding in the stockroom of my bridal shop for the last twenty-four hours because your daughter beat her until she couldn't breathe."

Ethan froze. "What?"

"She’s lying!" Madison screamed from behind him. "Claire attacked me on Friday night! I told you that!"

I reached into my pocket, pulled out my smartphone, and tapped the screen twice.

"I didn't lie, Ethan," I said, turning the bright display toward my husband. "And unlike your daughter, I don't ask you to take my word on faith."

I tapped the screen once more, mirroring the feed to the large smart TV mounted on the guest room wall.