Miranda Bryde was dying, and Charley Bryde stood on tippy-toes to see, grateful not to be the one with the air slowly being pushed from her lungs like a python’s squeeze.

But she was jealous all the same.

It wasn’t that she wanted her sister to die; it’s just that Miranda always got so much attention in the process. Charley looked over the costumed guests assembled in her grandmother’s double parlor, noting how perfectly still everyone was in their feathered plumes and Renaissance garb, like they all existed inside one held breath. They waited and watched Miranda onstage: pale, freckled skin, bulging, bloodshot eyes, a black silk cocktail dress that suggested she had gathered everyone together for dinner, not to choke to death for the evening’s main event. A tear worked its way from underneath the black lace mask she wore as her Halloween costume, glittering in the candlelight like a diamond. Even in death, Charley thought, leave it to Miranda Bryde to look like a movie star.

“Help me,” Miranda gasped, one hand leaving her throat long enough to reach out toward the audience. Her gaze landed on a woman dressed in a royal-blue sari affixed with dozens of teal feathers (her interpretation of a peacock) seated a few feet from the makeshift stage. Still clutching the thick bone-colored invitation that served as entry into the Spectacular, the woman shrank back in her seat in terror, using the card stock as a fan as she burst into tears. The guests had been instructed to remain calm “regardless of what might occur on the stage,” and no one was willing to risk their hostess’s charity, especially when the hostess was proving to be a psychopath.