Sara looked up the spiral staircase. At the top, bathed in the blue glow of a chandelier, stood a girl of about fourteen. Same sharp cheekbones. Same cold, green eyes. But not Chloe.
“Now you have two choices,” Ivy said, her voice already thickening. “Let me die, and spend the rest of your life in prison for my murder. Or…” She swayed, clutching the banister. “Call an ambulance. Save me. And spend the rest of your life knowing I own you.”
“Good choice,” Ivy whispered. “Now the real game begins.”