Instead, from the moment I stepped inside, I felt like I had walked into a trap with linen napkins.
Lauren was twenty-nine and beautiful in the polished, practiced way that had always made people turn their heads. She had my mother’s blonde hair, my father’s dimple, and a talent for making cruelty sound like charm if she smiled brightly enough while saying it. That night she wore a fitted cream dress and a coat that probably cost more than most people’s rent. When she hugged me, I caught a familiar perfume on her wrist.
Not hers.
Mine.
It was one of the many things I noticed and didn’t comment on.
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