st the spot where the bullet had torn through her. Sh

g her over. But there was no searing

n. No blood. No wound. Just the scratchy, c

ptian cotton, impossibly soft. A world away fr

e opulent decor, the sweeping views of Manhattan

led toward the nightstand. She sna

ed in crisp white numbers. The e

th tears. A wild, disbelieving joy surged th

ed at the suite's

Bailey's voice, syrupy sweet a

hard of ice. The urge to storm over to the door and wrap her

p, steadying b

said, her voice

e gown. She walked toward Chloie, her hand outstretched, a perfect smile on h

hing for hers. She remembered that same hand

ement was so sharp and violent t

The Chloie she knew was a timid, eager-to-please puppy. "What's

She stared at her, not as a sister, but as s

f cold, hard pressure, that Bailey felt a genuine shiv

oice wasn't loud, but it carr

tten into you?" she started, launching into

rystal ashtray from the table, and threw it down at Bailey'

ealized something was seriously wrong. She t

ted it. Then she turned and walke

under layers of garish makeup. Smoky black eyeshadow, thick foundation, ugly dark lipstick. A mask she had worn f

handfuls of cold water, and began

rom the mirror was a face she had almost forgotten. Clean, sharp lines, high cheekbo