Adele hit the stack of tires lining the back wall of her garage, her poor depth perception buffered by galvanized rubber. She entered her kitchen to a stab of acute anxiety, which she attributed to a low vodka level.

Setting her bags on the center island, she clipped to the freezer and withdrew an icy bottle. She didn’t remember finishing the last, but happily opened a new one. She pulled a frosted highball glass from the collection beside a velvet case of loose diamonds and rejoiced in the crackle of Ikon over ice cubes.

Adele sat on a stool and crossed her long legs. Pulling a ruby studded vial from her purse, she shook out a Loritab. She cradled vodka on her tongue for a moment and let the tablet disappear. Then she saw the snapshot across the counter top. She reached to pluck it from the tile surface, grateful for the warmth already exploding in her center.

She and John mugged for their older brother, Roy. They were going to live that life forever: young, rich, beautiful and always together. They were charmed, they were the Black family gems and no one could ever come between them.

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