Then Vanessa leaned in close enough for me to smell her expensive perfume and whispered:
“I’m going to destroy you.”
I looked past her toward the courtroom doors, the polished marble floors, and the reporters waiting near the elevators because Vanessa had personally invited them.
Of course she had.
My sister always needed an audience.
Vanessa thought courtrooms worked exactly like family dinners:
The first person to cry won.
The loudest liar received sympathy.
And whoever acted most helpless got protected.
For years, that method had worked perfectly for her.
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