Evie stepped into the lobby of the Fifth Avenue building. The marble floors gleamed under the crystal chandeliers. Her dirty canvas shoes squeaked against the polished surface.
The concierge, dressed in a tailored uniform, stepped in front of her. He looked down his nose at her. "Can I help you? We don't allow soliciting."
The air, thick with the scent of lilies and money, made Evie's stomach clench. It was the smell of her cage. She pushed the revulsion down, letting a mask of ice settle over her features. She looked at him, her face blank. "Gary Patton's daughter. Penthouse."
The concierge blinked, surprised. He looked her up and down, then reluctantly swiped his card for the private elevator.
The doors closed. Evie stared at her reflection in the mirrored walls. She took a slow breath, pushing the bile down her throat.
The elevator dinged. The doors opened into a lavish French Rococo foyer. Gold leaf, silk wallpaper, fresh flowers.
The living room was a chaos of camera flashes. A photographer and a reporter from a society magazine were setting up.
Brenda Patton stood in the center, wearing a Chanel suit, her face stretched into a practiced smile. Beth Patton stood beside her, the picture of a perfect Ivy League student.
Evie's footsteps made everyone turn. The reporter stared. The photographer lowered his camera.
Brenda's smile vanished for a fraction of a second. Pure, venomous hatred flashed in her eyes before the mask snapped back into place.
"Oh, my poor baby!" Brenda cried out, opening her arms. She walked toward Evie, projecting her voice for the reporter. "You're finally out of the hospital!"
She used the word "hospital" instead of "clinic." A subtle dig. A reminder of the psych ward.
Evie stood perfectly still. Brenda's arms reached for her shoulders.
At the last possible second, Evie took a sharp step back.
Brenda's arms closed around empty air. She froze, looking ridiculous. The camera flashes went crazy, capturing the awkward rejection.
"Your Botox is uneven," Evie said. Her voice was clear, cutting through the silence of the room. "Your left cheek is stiff."
The reporter let out a choked sound, quickly scribbling in her notebook. The photographer grinned behind his lens.
Brenda's face turned a mottled red. The mask cracked.
Beth rushed forward, her eyes brimming with fake tears. "Evie! How can you talk to Mother like that?"
She reached out to grab Evie's arm, playing the forgiving, put-upon sister for the cameras.
Evie slapped her hand away. The sound was sharp, like a whip crack.
Beth gasped, clutching her hand.
"Tell me," Evie said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper that the reporter had to lean in to hear, "how is that paper on post-structuralist theory coming along? It must be difficult to defend a thesis you barely understand."
Beth's face drained of color. Her eyes darted around in panic. The barb had hit its mark, a direct assault on her carefully constructed image of effortless genius. "How... how would you know anything about that?"
Brenda snapped. She pointed at the staff. "Get them out! Now! The interview is over!"
The security guards rushed the reporter and photographer out the door. The heavy double doors slammed shut.
The smile vanished from Brenda's face. She stalked toward Evie, her finger jabbing the air. "You ungrateful little bitch! If you ruin this family's name, I will sign you back into that asylum so fast your head will spin!"
Evie dropped her canvas bag on the expensive rug. It landed with a heavy thud. She stepped forward, getting right into Brenda's personal space.
"Try it," Evie said, her eyes promising violence.
