The radiator clanked in the corner, a sharp, metallic sound that made us all flinch.

Outside, a cold Cleveland sleet began to hit the windowpane.

My mother drew in a deep, sharp breath, her chest rising.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the deed on the table.

She reached out her hand toward the pen I had placed beside the papers.

“Sign it,” my mother said.

She did not look at the photos Lauren had sent.

She kept her palm pressed flat over them, hiding the image of Megan dancing on a tabletop in Chicago.

“This is a cheap fabrication,” my mother said, her voice rising.

“You made this up because you can’t stand to see your sister get what she deserves.”

“Lauren took those last week, Mom,” I said.

My hands still smelled of the grey industrial sealant from the job site on 9th Street.

My fingernails were chipped, black grease embedded deep under the cuticles.

“Lauren always hated Megan,” my mother spat.

“She was jealous of her, just like you have been since the day she was born.”