Now, my sister was ready to burn it all down to fund her own lifestyle.

When I parked outside the diner, the neon sign buzzed in the damp air, casting red and blue reflections on the wet asphalt.

I walked inside, the smell of grease and burnt coffee hitting me immediately.

Lauren was sitting in a vinyl booth near the back, her fingers wrapping around a thick ceramic mug.

She looked up as I approached, her face tight with worry.

“Thanks for coming, Clara,” she said, sliding over to give me room.

I sat down opposite her, keeping my heavy work coat zipped to my chin.

“You said you saw her,” I began, my voice flat.

Lauren nodded and pulled out her phone, tapping the screen before sliding it across the laminated table.

“She doesn’t know I still have friends in her circle,” Lauren said. “She told everyone she was going to a specialist in Chicago, but she’s been living in a high-rise downtown.”

On the screen was a video, clear and high-definition.