At Christmas, my parents turned away my 11-year-old at the door; she had to walk home alone carrying every gift she'd brought and had to spend Christmas in an empty house;

By 2:00 PM, the grand driveway of 14 Crestview Ridge was finally clear of the moving vans and police cruisers.

Eleanor and Richard had been driven away in an Uber—the very same service they had looked down upon the afternoon before—carrying three suitcases between them, headed for the budget residential suites off the state bypass road.

Aunt Dana had stayed behind, lingering by the stone mailbox like a ghost refusing to admit the haunting was over.

I found her leaning against the brick pillar, her mascara smeared across her cheekbones, clutching her designer leather tote bag like a shield. When she saw me walking down the driveway with a clipboard Vance had given me, she charged toward me, her eyes wild.

“You think you won, don’t you?” Dana spat, her voice shaking with venomous fury. “You think you’re so righteous, Kate! You were always the jealous one! Just because Dad paid for my wedding and didn’t pay for yours! Just because Logan went to private school and Emma had to attend the district public school!”

I stopped three feet from her. The cold didn't bother me anymore. I felt an odd, crystalline calm settling over my skin.

“Dana,” I said softly, “look around you.”

She blinked, caught off guard by my tone.

“There are six security cameras within forty yards of where you are standing,” I said, pointing up toward the eaves of the neighboring properties. “Every neighbor who invited you to their New Year’s gala has spent the last five hours watching you get evicted by the county sheriff. Julian Prescott’s brother blocked your number three hours ago—Mark checked the carrier logs Arthur Vance pulled for the fraud file.”

Dana’s face drained of what little color it had left. “He... he what?”

“He left your things at the security gate in two garbage bags, Dana,” I said, pulling a slip of paper from the clipboard. “They’re sitting in the guardhouse right now. Prescott’s family doesn't associate with people whose parents are facing three felony counts of trust embezzlement and child endangerment. You wanted high society? You wanted exclusive circles? You’re on the county blotter now.”

Dana dropped her phone into the snow. She didn't pick it up.

She looked at the massive stone house behind me—the house where she had held her engagement parties, her bridal showers, her summer cocktail evenings—and for the first time in her thirty-five years, she realized the golden pedestal she had lived on was made of papier-mâché.

“What am I supposed to do?” she whimpered, the venom completely vanishing, replaced by the desperate whimper of an entitled child whose allowance had been cut off. “Logan has hockey camp next week. The fees are four thousand dollars. The card was declined.”

“I suggest you look up the state assistance portal,” I said, stepping past her to check the lock on the gate panel. “I hear the applications are processed every Tuesday. Just make sure you dress warm when you stand in line, Dana. It’s supposed to drop down to twelve degrees tonight.”