Chapter 1
Sable
Present day
“Have you tried turning it off and on again?”
The woman’s voice crackles through my headset. “Have I tried turning it off—you know what? That’s the problem with you people. You speak down to me as if I’m some kind of idiot when you’re the reason my internet isn’t working.”
The wings of the fidget spinner make a low hissing sound before I stop it dead in its tracks. Then I flick the blade again. Rainbow lights flash with pulsing stars, casting the only hint of color onto my dull surroundings.
I stop it. Start it. Stop it again, waiting for her to stop talking so I can recite our handbook’s response.
“I’m sorry you’re having issues with—”
“You people like to think that you’re better than me just because you’re on the other end of the fucking phone—”
She keeps going, but I’ve finished listening. I know the drill. It always goes the same way, and I’m out of fucks to give. It’s hard to get mad at her, given her anger toward me ends when the call does, because that’s all I have left—rage.
Even then, my well is dry. It all poured out of me almost a year ago, and there’s nothing left for me to give since nothing has changed.
I stare blankly at the bright blue and pink disco lights, then drop the spinner onto the table beside last week’s empty cup noodles. Staying slouched against my seat, I move my fingers over the keyboard to record Suzanne’s comments.
More “you people…”
More “do your job…”
More “I pay you to…”
The light from the screen paints the dark bedroom in various shades of white and blue as I click between the tabs. It’s always dark in here.
Keeping my lamp off keeps the electricity bill down.
Keeping life more depressing is an unintended bonus.
I make noncommittal sounds whenever there’s a break in the asshole’s diatribe.
Once upon a time, I found the crazy customers entertaining.
I’d come home and tell my sister about all the shitty things I’d heard.
I’d sit in the breakroom and listen to my coworkers’ conversations, pretending I was well versed in the nine-to-five life, had spent my entire life shit-talking rich people, and didn’t have parents in prison for embezzlement.
Once upon a time, I had almost everything.
And once upon a time, I didn’t spend all day, every day, working from home, beside the bedroom my sister died in.
But that’s all in the past. The present is bleak, and sometimes I pray that the future is nonexistent.
“Just to confirm, Ms. Myers, you haven’t tried restarting the modem?” I ask because I forgot to listen.
“Did you even listen to me?” No, I didn’t. “What’s your name? I want to speak to your manager.”
I glance at the top of the monitor. It took Suzanne Myers four minutes and twenty-three seconds to say the M word. Longer than I thought it’d take.
After five years working at Latitude Net—“Connecting you to the universe”—I’ve developed this special skill where I can immediately tell whether a customer is going to be an absolute piece of shit by how they respond to the question, “How’s your day today?”
Or maybe I’ve always had that skill because of my parents. Biting my tongue used to be an impossibility, but now I don’t give enough of a shit to do more than stay silent.
“Of course. Let me put you on hold while I see who’s available.”
“You are not putting me on hol—”
I click Hold and stare at the screen blankly. Ms. Myers is meant to be my last call of the day. I was hoping it would be a long one, so I had an excuse to work later.
The living room clock ticks, audible even over the loud hum of my struggling laptop. I hear it in my nightmares sometimes. The ticking.
It’s always the same dream. Waking in the early hours of the morning and going to talk to Ella after what happened the night before.
I call her name. Once, twice, four times.
Eight. She doesn’t stir. When I switch the light on, all I do is stare at her yellowish-green skin, and hear the clock ticking in the background.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Then I scream. Wake up to find that Ella is still dead, and I’m stuck here, living in the apartment our parents bought for her before they went to prison, working a dead-end job, day in and day out, waiting for oblivion to finally take me.
Waiting for something. Anything. But nothing ever comes.
Swiping a hand over my face, I click on my supervisor’s name to explain the situation. The call ends with a heavy sigh and a reluctant, “Send her through.”
I transfer Ms. Myers over, complete my report, then clock out.
And there’s nothing else to do.
The world around me plunges into darkness when my computer dies. Without the fan struggling to run, all that’s left is that tick, tick, tick. It echoes through the bedroom, bouncing against the closed door that leads to Ella’s deathbed.
I don’t move from my spot. Can’t. Why would I? There’s nothing else to do. I just sit there, staring at the black screen, willing time to pass.
It’s 1 October. Ella would have turned twenty-six today. Or should’ve.
We would’ve been celebrating her birthday.
We would’ve bought two muffins from the grocery store and lit a single candle.
Megan, my sister’s best friend, would have joined us, the life of the party as always.
She would have made us mocktails and pretended she was tipsy, and then all hell would have broken loose once Uno was brought out.
My sister would have beamed, feeling truly alive for a couple hours before she crashed and slept until the afternoon.
Maybe Ella would have started crying, thinking about all the friends we lost after my parents ruined our lives. Then Megan would have cried because she’s the only person who stuck around.
I’d have watched them both, thinking that the bigger someone is, the faster they burn. And we fell hard—like Icarus soaring with false wings, guaranteed to meet our demise.
But we didn’t know any better. We were just children living under our parents’ roof. Ella, with her rose-colored glasses; me, with the beast beating in my chest, too loud to hear anything else.
If Mom were still around, she’d spend the stolen money on a party she’d insist Ella have to show the rest of high society that we Eldriths have still got it: the diamonds, the fountains of cash, the divine blood.
Yet here we are. My parents are in orange jumpsuits. My sister gray and blue. And me…? I’m whatever’s left over.
The broken computer chair groans beneath my weight as I rise to my feet, lost to the numbness that’s sunk into my bones. I don’t bother turning the light on—or lifting my feet over the laundry on the floor to get to the kitchen.
Yellow light from the streetlamps outside spills into the apartment, illuminating the piles of dishes and empty takeout bags that I’m going to clean next week.
I’ve said “next week” for eleven months now.
One more week won’t hurt. The only thing that matters is in Ella’s room.
It’s all the same. Nothing ever changes. There’s never anything new—no new people, no new surroundings, no new adventures. Monotony alone might kill me.
My phone chimes in my pocket. I know who it is without looking.
Megan: You should ask your boss if you can finish early today.
Guilt churns in my stomach. Ella wouldn’t be happy to hear I’ve lied to Megan. I told her I’ve been scheduled for the night shift because I can’t bring myself to see her—can’t face letting her bear witness to the physical manifestation of all my failures.
It’s not like she genuinely cares anyway. She only checks in because she promised Ella she would look out for me after she died.
A second message pops up.
Megan: And whatever you do, DON’T go looking online for shit that will only hurt your feelings.
It’s too late for that.
Rage trickles into my veins at the memory. Poor impulse control has me pulling up the news article from this morning again. Those vultures will feast on anything. They don’t give a shit about who they hurt.
Sources confirm that Eldrith Corp’s incarcerated CEO, Charles Eldrith, and his wife, also incarcerated, Singaporean heiress, Vivianna Eldrith, were not granted permission to visit their daughter’s grave on her birthday, following a decision made by Judge Clarke yesterday morning.
I slam my phone down.
Ella doesn’t have a fucking grave.
If they called to check in—or even spent two minutes pretending to care—they’d know she never wanted one. Better yet, they could put their pathetic fucking brain cells to good use and figure out that none of us are in the financial position to bury my goddamn sister in the dirt.
They don’t care about us. They never fucking did.
My parents only knew how to solve a problem by throwing stolen money at it. Now they have none, and it’s not like a couple hundred dollars would bring her back. But… I guess they weren’t entirely wrong. There is a family grave on our land.
Ella’s just not in it.
My eyes dart to the urn on the shelf. I couldn’t bury her in the crypt with the rest of our fucked-up family, and it’s not like I have the finances to buy a separate funeral plot.
No person should be bound to that hellhole anyway.
A couple of decades was bad enough—an eternity would feel like being in the flaming pit.
I snatch the wine bottle off the counter and bring it to my lips, chugging the cheap liquid until only a couple sips remain. Beads of red drip from the corners of my lips onto my food-stained robe.
The alcohol must form its own map because I find myself standing at the threshold of Ella’s room.
The light bulb buzzes and flickers before turning on.
Dust particles float in the air and layer every surface in the room.
And, in my mind’s eye, I can still see her there like the night I found her.
On the bed. Dead. Surrounded by the crystals and spell bottles she swore helped.
Dreaming about a life she never got to live.
Thinking that her parents and her sister hated her.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, even though I know she can’t hear me.