My father called me a thief, took my house key, and told me I was no longer welcome under his roof.

The room at the Fayette County Detention Center smelled of industrial pine disinfectant and despair.

A thick pane of scratched, smudged plexiglass separated me from the metal stool on the other side. A heavy black telephone handset rested in a cradle to my left.

I sat down, placing my hands flat on the stainless steel counter. I wore a tailored cream sweater and simple dark trousers. I looked poised, grounded, and entirely in control of my own life.

The heavy steel door on the opposite side of the glass buzzed and clicked unlocked.

A female corrections officer escorted Olivia into the visiting booth.

I barely recognized her.

The manicured, designer-clad marketing director was gone. In her place stood a woman wearing a baggy, fluorescent orange jumpsuit with the county jail insignia stenciled across the chest. Her blonde hair, normally styled into sleek, bouncy waves, was dull, greasy, and pulled back in a sloppy knot with a yellow plastic band. Her face was pasty and gray, completely devoid of makeup, revealing the sharp, bitter lines etched around her mouth.

When her eyes landed on me, a momentary flash of shock crossed her face.

Then, horrifyingly, the mask slipped back on. The same sneering, superior expression she had worn for thirty years twisted her thin lips.

She sat down heavily on the metal stool and snatched up the black telephone handset with an aggressive jerk.

I picked up my receiver and brought it to my ear.

"Did you come here to gloat, little sister?" Olivia’s voice rasped through the earpiece, thin and venomous. "Did you take time out of your busy schedule of digging through dumpsters to come see me?"

"You don't look very comfortable, Olivia," I said evenly. "The jumpsuit doesn't match your white Mercedes."

A vicious, ugly sneer crossed her face. "Daniel set me up. That pathetic, weak coward couldn't handle an independent woman who knew what she was worth. He fabricated those bank records because he was terrified of my intelligence."

"He didn't fabricate the forty-two thousand you stole from his tenants," I replied, my voice chillingly calm. "He didn't fabricate the replica ring you tried to pawn in Louisville. And he certainly didn't fabricate the twenty-thousand-dollar loan you tried to take out in my name two years ago."

Olivia froze for half a second. Her pupils contracted, but she didn't blink.

"You owed me," she hissed, pressing her face against the scratched plexiglass until her breath fogged the plastic. "You always owed me! I was the one who carried the Carter name! I was the one who made Mom and Dad proud while you embarrassed them by getting your hands dirty like a common laborer! Everything I did was to maintain our family's standing!"

"By stealing Grandma's ring?"

"That ring was *mine*!" she spat, her knuckles whitening around the plastic receiver. "Grandma promised it to me! Daniel had no right to demand it back just because he got cold feet! I hid it so he couldn't take it! And if you hadn't been snooping around the dining room that day, I wouldn't have had to blame you!"

"You didn't *have* to blame me, Olivia," I said, leaning in slightly, locking my eyes with hers. "You chose to blame me. Because you knew Dad would never question you, and you knew he’d throw me away in a second if it protected your little illusion."

"And it worked, didn't it?" she laughed—a sharp, manic sound that made the corrections officer by the door glance over with a frown. "They threw you out like a stray dog! Mom emptied your drawers! Dad ripped your key off your ring! They didn't love you, Mia! They never loved you the way they loved me! Even now, sitting in this cage, I know that if I asked them to choose between us, they’d choose me!"

I looked at the woman on the other side of the glass.

I didn't feel rage anymore. I didn't feel hatred. Looking at her manic eyes and listening to her poison, I felt only a profound, liberating pity.

"They're not choosing you, Olivia," I said softly.

The smile on her face wavered slightly. "What are you talking about?"

"Dad knows everything," I continued, speaking slowly so every syllable pierced through her delusions. "He found the real ring under the secretary desk yesterday morning. He read Daniel’s evidence folder. He knows about the forged loans in his name. He knows about the credit cards."

Olivia’s face began to lose its color, the gray skin turning an ashen white. "Dad... Dad will fix it. He’ll take out another loan. He’ll hire a top criminal attorney—"

"Dad has no money, Olivia," I cut in. "You took his entire retirement. You took two hundred thousand dollars of their equity. The bank is foreclosing on the house on Old Richmond Road next month. Mom is on heavy sedatives in the psychiatric ward at Saint Joseph’s. Dad is a broken, destitute old man who can barely stand up without wheezing."

"No," she whispered, her voice finally losing its venom, replaced by a rising, panicked squeak. "No... Dad wouldn't let them take the house. It’s our family home!"

"It *was* our family home," I corrected. "Until you destroyed it. You aren't getting bail, Olivia. The Whitmores have three corporate attorneys ensuring your bail remains at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars cash. You have a public defender who’s going to advise you to plead guilty to grand larceny and fraud."

She began to hyperventilate, pressing her forehead against the plexiglass, her eyes darting frantically around the small concrete room.

"Mia... Mia, you have money," she suddenly gasped into the phone, her voice shifting into a nauseating, wheedling whine. "I saw that article in the paper! *Carter & Bennett Restoration*! You won that state contract! You have cash! You have to post my bail! I'm your sister! Blood is blood, Mia! You can't leave me in here with these animals!"

I stared at her through the glass.

"Three years ago, I had forty-three dollars in my checking account," I said, my voice steady as an oak beam. "It was raining. I was nearly out of gas. When I stood on our front porch and swore to you that I didn't touch your ring, you looked at me and said: *'She probably sold it already.'*"

"Mia, I was desperate! I was stressed about the wedding—"

"You let them throw me into the street without a second thought," I said, cutting through her frantic excuses. "You watched Mom search my underwear. You smiled when Dad took my key. You didn't care if I lived or died, as long as your designer bags stayed paid for."

"I made a mistake!" she screamed into the receiver, slamming her free hand against the glass. "I'm sorry! Okay? I'm sorry! Please, Mia, get me out of here! I can't survive in prison! Look at me! I will die in here!"

"You won't die, Olivia," I said, reaching up to slowly pull the telephone receiver away from my ear. "You'll just have plenty of time to learn what things are actually worth."

"Mia! Don't hang up! MIA!" she shrieked, her voice audible even through the soundproof plexiglass as she pounded both fists against the barrier. "MIA, PLEASE!"

I placed the black handset back into its metal cradle with a firm, deliberate *click*.

The corrections officer grabbed Olivia by the shoulder, forcing her hands behind her back and pushing her toward the steel exit door. Olivia thrashed wildly, screaming obscenities and frantic apologies that mingled into a hideous, incoherent wail until the heavy steel door slammed shut behind her, sealing her away in the belly of the prison.