Lost a sibling once. Flesh and blood, her own entirely, she sent to wander somewhere. Likely lifeless in a heap of forestry obscurity. A ditch, or, maybe, floating in a vast river's core.

She didn't mean it—didn't mean to do it.

Grief hadn't even retired to acceptance before she was thrusted there at a jiffy; windows and door bolted—for nine fucking years. Defining a shed Mom jailed her in as 'home' tends a glimpse into what she blossomed to be; paranoid bitch.

Was paranoia heritable in her mother's womb? Better question, yet, is—who are those c/ntfucks you're with?

"Meeting with friends, huh?" the muttered discovery grits through her teeth. Fogs a car's trunk flank she ducked under just right on time when your head perks, along with a few unrecognizable threats, above and out a dormant cab. There, across a cracked sidewalk, fronting a bar.

Really? A fucking bar? Earlier lent her an earful of what might as well bellow a red-buzzing siren, given that your promises were just utterly wrong.

"Had some plans to eat at a café with friends—" Cate knew better. "I'll be back by ten," Ten meant eleven or later.

Thus, she tailed your scurrying ass, hoodied-up, baseball capped, and sunglasses framed above. What'd you expect? You hadn't replied to at least one (out of eighty-nine) ping of her texts! The world is scary—unpredictable. Sauntering with those legs of yours, an ethereal face constantly in display, she wagers a hundred vultures are slobbering for a taste. Of course, worry will ache her heart!

And, of course, the tracking location she installed on your phone soothes its erratic thumps. You know, from one stray pup Indira hedged under her wing to another—it's wonted responsibilities as your stepsister.

Shield you safe. Unharmed. Unmarked.

So, she hovers behind; your shadow, always a step too close, slipped past the bouncer and into a booth.

Now, you let a stranger's hand grasp your hip? Her nose scrunches. That won't do.