I lifted my hand, reached up with one index finger, and wiped away the single fake tear on my cheekbone to reveal a perfectly calm expression beneath it.

By seven o’clock the next morning, the glass mansion was cold enough that I could see my breath in the hallway.

Daniel stood by the polished chrome espresso machine in the kitchen, carefully measuring his imported dark roast beans.

He never let anyone else brew his morning coffee, treating the daily task like a sacred ritual.

I walked into the kitchen wearing my winter coat, keeping my hands inside the deep wool pockets.

My right fingers were wrapped around the smooth glass of the small dark bottle I had taken from the back of my old dresser drawer before dawn.