Page 39 of The Locked Ward
You used to live with your phone in hand; you were surrounded by the cyber noise of incoming text chimes, bright notes of musical alarms, whooshes of sent emails, and pop-up notifications.
The abrupt dearth of the electronic soundtrack is jarring, like you’ve been transported from Times Square to the Sahara.
You fell asleep with your phone as a companion, too, ignoring all the warnings against blue light and REM disruption. You’d catch up on social media, tapping hearts on Instagram posts and scrolling through reels until your eyelids grew heavy.
Now, when the lights go out, you engage in a battle of wills with your mind.
You don’t always win. Sometimes you think about Annabelle’s last birthday, the one that ended with her crumpled on the floor as coppery-smelling blood seeped into her thick blond hair. Tonight, though, your mind skitters to a memory of a different birthday, Annabelle’s thirtieth.
When you were younger, the excesses of her celebrations was one of the ways it was obvious she was the favored child. The gifts were more significant, and your parents’ excitement was genuine.
You decided to attend her thirtieth because you were in a good place in life, with your thriving business and devoted boyfriend. You didn’t plan to stay long. You’d swoop in, air-kiss her cheek, steal a bit of her thunder, and leave.
The party was held in the private room of a swanky Asian restaurant called O-Ku.
Dozens of Annabelle’s friends flitted about in their pink and lavender dresses while laughter rang out and champagne corks popped like gunshots.
Your parents were there to fawn over their golden girl and pick up the tab.
You walked in on the arm of your model-handsome date, wearing a bright red dress, the only shade of that color you’d found that not only worked with your hair but enhanced it. You were embracing your role as the scarlet-letter daughter.
You made sure Annabelle and your parents saw you arrive, but you waited for them to come to you. You greeted them, feigning delight, and introduced them to your date, who shook your father’s hand and declared himself honored to meet Honey.
Then Annabelle spun away to giggle with her girlfriends, and your mother decided to get another drink, dragging your father away.
He glanced back at you, and you could swear you saw an actual emotion flicker across his face—regret, maybe?
—before he gave a little shrug, as if he were helpless in the wake of Honey’s determination.
Your family had no interest in spending time with you, even though you hadn’t seen them in months.
It shouldn’t have hurt; you thought you’d become immune to their slights. But hot tears pricked your eyes, and you realized you’d wrapped your arms around your stomach.
Coming to the party had been a mistake. You were about to leave when a booming voice sounded over the buzzing of the crowd: “I heard someone is having a birthday.”
Senator Dawson stood in the doorway, his perfect white smile contrasting with his lightly tanned skin.
His tall, powerfully built frame was clad in a bespoke suit with a rare and highly coveted accessory: the gleaming round pin that identified him as a member of the US Congress.
His wife, Dee Dee, was beside him in a peach dress with a full skirt.
His aide Reece DuPont, who accompanied the senator everywhere, stood behind him like a sentry.
“Is that…” your date whispered, and you nodded. The senator’s star was rising. The New York Times had recently profiled him, calling him “the future of this country.”
Then it happened.
Honey smoothed out her skirt as the senator and Dee Dee walked toward her, the senator leading the way.
Honey’s eyes were shiny, her face wreathed in delight.
She smiled and began to lift up her arms, preparing for the senator’s greeting of a warm hug, which would put her in the center of the spotlight.
But he walked right past her.
He had eyes only for Annabelle.
Tonight, with her lush curves wrapped in a white silk dress and the striking green eyes she’d inherited from Honey gleaming like emeralds, she looked better than she ever had.
The senator wrapped an arm around Annabelle’s waist and leaned close to her, murmuring something into her ear that made her laugh.
You saw it: the tightening of Honey’s and Dee Dee’s faces as they watched.
They were used to being the most important women in the room, to commanding attention because of their great wealth and social prestige.
Now Annabelle had usurped them.
Dee Dee leaned in close to Honey and whispered something. Honey nodded grimly.
As Annabelle and the senator smiled at each other with his arm still around her waist, Honey and Dee Dee looked at Annabelle in a way they’d only looked at you before.
It was then you realized Honey and Dee Dee were capable of hating Annabelle, too.