Chapter 1

The blue passport left Maggie's fingers so fast it was nothing but a blur of motion, a snap of air where her grip had been a second before. Brooke's hand shot out with the precision of a snake striking, and the passport vanished into the dark pocket of her black blazer. The boarding pass Brooke had been "helpfully" holding fluttered down, spinning like a falling leaf, until it landed at Maggie's feet.

"No Hawaii," Brooke said, her voice sweet enough to make the words worse. She patted the pocket where the passport now rested. "You watch the cats."

The fluorescent lights of the airport check-in hall hummed overhead. Around them, the roped queue shuffled forward, other families with their own luggage and their own dramas, oblivious to the small ambush happening in their midst. The polished dark floor reflected the chaos of the departures board above: flights to Honolulu, to Denver, to New York.

Maggie stood frozen, her hand still half open where the passport had been. Her cream wool coat suddenly felt too warm, the pearl stud earrings in her lobes suddenly heavy. The word "cats" hung in the air like smoke. Eight years. Eight years of this, of Brooke treating her like a piece of furniture that occasionally cooked dinner, and Richard standing beside her saying nothing.

"Just let it go." Richard's voice was a whisper, barely audible over the PA system announcing a boarding call for Chicago. His hand found her elbow, gentle, placating. "Don't make a scene. You know how she gets."

Maggie turned her head slowly to look at him. Her husband of six years, her partner of eight. His charcoal cardigan was buttoned wrong at the bottom, the way it always was when he dressed in a hurry. His tired peacekeeping face was already apologizing for her, preemptively smoothing over an offense that hadn't happened yet.

This was an ambush, she realized. Not spontaneous cruelty. Planned. Brooke had volunteered to hold both their tickets "to keep things simple." Maggie had handed them over without thinking, too excited about the beach, the sun, the first vacation in two years where she wasn't cleaning up after someone else's mess. And now Brooke had her passport in a pocket, and Brooke was smiling with her precise, expensive teeth.

"The cats," Maggie repeated. Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "You want me to stay home with the cats."

"Someone has to." Brooke shrugged, adjusting the strap of her oversized black tote bag. She was twenty-seven, perfectly tailored, her dark hair in a tight low bun that made her look like she'd stepped out of a boardroom rather than a family vacation lineup. "You're the one who's always going on about how they need their routine. Poor little Snowball and Whiskers. Can't leave them alone."

The couple behind them in line was starting to notice. The woman, maybe forty, wearing a red puffer jacket, had lowered her phone. Behind her, a man in a baseball cap was pretending to study the departures board but his head was tilted slightly, listening.