The sun crept through the blinds in harsh geometric patterns. Liz's alarm had been screaming for ten minutes before she finally registered it, slapping blindly at her phone. Six AM. The overnight shift at the warehouse started in an hour. She dragged herself upright, every muscle protesting. Twenty-five, but she looked forty in the harsh morning light—grey circles under her eyes, lines creasing her forehead. Charlotte would be asleep by now. Liz felt a pang of guilt remembering last night—her sister's face in the doorway, frightened about something in the kitchen, and she'd just dismissed her. Told her to handle it herself. She'd make it up to her later. Maybe grab donuts on the way home, Charlotte's favorite kind with chocolate frosting. Liz pulled on her work clothes and headed downstairs. Her boots were where she'd left them, still crusted with warehouse dust. She bent to lace them up and noticed something odd—the kitchen light was still on. She walked toward it. Had Charlotte stayed up all night? Liz stopped in the doorway. The kitchen was immaculate. Spotless—counters wiped, floor gleaming, everything in its place. It looked like Charlotte had done a deep clean in the middle of the night. But why? And where was she now? "Charlotte?" Liz called up the stairs. No answer. Unease prickled at the base of her spine. She climbed the stairs and pushed open Charlotte's door. The bed was empty, still made from yesterday. Her laptop sat closed on the desk. "Charlotte?" Louder now, an edge of panic creeping in. Liz checked the bathroom. Empty. Checked her own room. Empty. The unease had bloomed into full-fledged fear, her heart hammering. She thundered back downstairs, calling her sister's name, her voice bouncing off the walls with increasing desperation. The laundry room. She hadn't checked the laundry room. Liz pushed open the door. Charlotte lay crumpled between the washing machine and the wall, her body twisted at an angle that made Liz's stomach lurch. Her sister's eyes were open, staring at nothing, her lips slightly parted. A small puncture wound marked her neck, a tiny bead of dried blood beside it. The world tilted. Liz heard a sound—a horrible, animal keening—and realized it was coming from her own throat. She was on her knees beside Charlotte, hands hovering, afraid to touch, afraid to confirm what she already knew. Charlotte's skin was cold. So cold. "No no no no no—" Liz grabbed her phone with shaking hands, could barely see the screen through her tears. "911, I need—my sister, she's—please—" The operator's voice came through tinny and distant. But all Liz could see was Charlotte's face, frozen in death, those eyes that would never look at her again. Those eyes that had looked at her just hours ago, pleading for help, and she'd turned away. The sirens came eventually. Paramedics filled the small laundry room, their movements efficient, but Liz could read it in their faces—the careful gentleness with which they handled Charlotte's body. There was no urgency. Just documentation. Evidence collection. A detective arrived, asked questions in a soft voice. When did you last see your sister? And Liz answered mechanically, her voice hollow, while inside her head a single memory played on loop: "Liz, please. Wake up. Someone's been in the kitchen." "Charlotte, you're already seventeen. You know you can handle that yourself." Those were the last words she'd said to her sister. Not I love you. Not I'm here for you. Just a dismissal. A rejection. "Your sister came to you last night and said someone had been in the kitchen," the detective said. "Did she say anything else?" "No." The word came out broken. "I didn't let her. I told her to handle it herself and I went back to sleep. I was tired. I just wanted to sleep." The detective's expression shifted—pity, maybe. Or understanding of the guilt that Liz would carry for the rest of her life. They kept her there for hours. The house filled with strangers collecting evidence. They found traces of someone in the kitchen, signs of a hasty search. They found Charlotte's phone in the hallway, dropped and forgotten. They found nothing that brought her back. Liz sat at the kitchen table—that spotless kitchen Charlotte had somehow cleaned in her last hours—and stared at her sister's laptop. When Liz touched the trackpad, it flickered to life. A document was still open. An essay. The Harvard application. Liz's vision blurred as she read the first line: I don't have a triumphant narrative about overcoming adversity. I have a sister who works two jobs and falls asleep too exhausted to be afraid when someone breaks into our house... The words swam. Liz closed the laptop quickly, unable to bear it.
