The first sign of trouble came when the elevator doors of Andie Bank's Hollywood high-rise dinged open, and a cloud of baking snickerdoodles crept in like a nebulous monster in a low-budget movie.

Maybe it wasn't normal to experience gut-twisting dread when confronted with such a sugary, buttery aroma, but in Andie's case, her carefully constructed lie—maintained without a glitch for three months—had crumbled like a stale cookie. Because the only person who ever baked in Andie's kitchen was her best friend and adoptive sister, Sterling Champagne.

The target of Andie's deception.

Shit, she knows.

A flurry of possible excuses, explanations, and half-truths ran through Andie's head, but Sterling would see through them all.

Sweat trickled down Andie's back, and her sports bra clung to her like a Spandex python. She stepped out of the elevator, mostly out of habit. That's what someone usually did when elevator doors opened.

Right?

But a part of her contemplated going back down and taking another long run. Perhaps somewhere further this time, like to a far-off galaxy, or better yet, a nice, quiet little black hole. Anything to avoid confronting Sterling.

Across the hall, Andie's apartment door hung askew, the brand-new deadbolt dangling like a useless appendage. As if a consumer-grade lock would have been enough of a deterrent. Andie sighed and said a silent goodbye to her security deposit. She nudged open the door just as a plastic figurine of Yoda whooshed over her head. Andie yelped. It hit the door jamb and clattered to the floor.

Sterling loomed behind the kitchen island, Rapunzel-length corkscrew curls cascading over her shoulders; movie-star aura oozing from her body like atomized gold. As the most famous actress in the world, she excelled at drama.

"You missed," Andie smiled, hoping a little levity would lighten the mood and stave off additional flying objects. The apartment was pretty barren, but there was still plenty of ammunition in the kitchen: pots, pans, cups, saucers to name a few.

"Ha," Sterling deadpanned. "If I'd meant to hit you, I would've. You know I have perfect aim."

Andie scooped up Yoda and set him on the island between racks topped with dozens of British Baking Show perfect cookies and Poth, the only houseplant Andie had ever managed not to murder.

Be calm. Andie drew a deep breath. "Look, Ster, I can explain," Andie said in her best I'm-a-rational-accountant tone.

Sterling clenched her hands into fists. "What the hell, Andie? Why does your apartment look like a yard sale? Half your furniture is gone. The rest has price tags. And where is your signed poster of Chris Pine as Jim Kork? I thought you slept with the damned thing."

"Kirk! It's Kirk! From Star Trek. Unbelievable," Andie snapped, in a quick abandonment of the whole being-calm idea. In the interest of not coming off like a lunatic, she did not reveal an occasional impulse to sleep with the poster.

"I know you thought about sleeping with it," Sterling countered. Sometimes it really sucked having a friend who knew you so well. Sterling seized the plant, shaking it over her head, its glossy leaves bobbing wildly in the pot."

Andie raised her hands in surrender, as a wave of maternal protectiveness for her only surviving houseplant washed over. "Please, put it down."

"Not until I've decided whether you should spend the night in the emergency room or the morgue."

From anyone other than Sterling, a statement like this might sound vaguely threatening. But the edge of humor in such exaggeration proved that forgiveness wasn't out of the question. The knot in Andie's stomach loosened slightly. She lowered her hands. "Could there maybe be a third option?"

Sterling narrowed her brown, kohl-lined goddess eyes and shook her head. "I can't think of one."

"How about listening to my supremely logical explanation? Not jumping to conclusions? Leaving my skull and my house plant intact? Ugh! I've got everything under control." Andie stomped her foot for emphasis. Yoda tumbled off the island.

Sterling glanced at the fallen Jedi, then folded her arms across her chest. "Uh, huh. Go on."

"I got tired of possessions. They only weigh you down. Complicate life."

"So you're a hippie now?"

"Possibly?" Andie squeaked.

"No more lying! I found this in your knife drawer." Sterling unfolded her arms, jabbed a hand into the pocket of her Stella McCartney vegan bomber jacket, and extracted an eviction notice, waving it under Andie's chin. Andie took the paper and pretended to examine it. Then turned it right-side up.

Sterling frowned. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Andie gulped. "Don't look at me like that. It's all a misunderstanding."

"Uh ... I love you, Andie, but you're a god-awful liar. Trust me, I'm an actress who's paid big bucks to lie. "I get that you're broke, but ..." Sterling smiled, and a cold, prickly fear crept along Andie's scalp and down her spine.

Andie knew what the smile signified, and that she would not like it. "No, Sterling. No way."

"Oh, yes, my friend. Oh, yes."

Was it Andie's imagination or did her friend let out a triumphant cackle like an insane supervillain?

***

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