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was sitting on a black-and-white speckled pony. Around Taylor’s other shoulder rested cozily the tan arm of a striking brunette—Taylor’s mother, Katherine.
    â€œThe perfect family, how sweet!” Krystal sneered, as a hint of bile and vodka crept up her throat. As Krystal slammed the picture frame face down on the glass desk, a sharp crack echoed through the bedroom. The commotion kicked the screen saver from the monitor, opening up the computer’s contents to Krystal’s prying eyes.
    â€œYou are so stupid, Taylor,” she cooed. “You left it logged on just for me?” the drunken woman asked her absent stepdaughter. She smiled crookedly, delighted.
    Clicking into Taylor’s e-mail, Krystal snooped at new messages in the inbox. She read messages from Antonio on the screen. Her red nails tapped a short reply to his confessions of love, writing to him, I do not love you. Do not ever write to me again. Ciao. Krystal hit the send button and gushed with satisfaction before deleting the evidence from the e-mail folders.
    â€œNow let’s get down to business,” she said as she typed search words into the web browser.
    The obnoxious crease in her forehead deepened as Krystal glared maddeningly at the glowing laptop screen. “Sixty days for a license? My fat behind!” she screamed at the monitor.
    Old acquaintances from the back country of South Georgia owed her favors, and she wanted them to pay up, preferably without any receipts or records floating around.
    She slammed the laptop closed and huffed as she went to the open window, where the sheer-pink curtains curled around her smooth, spray-tanned legs. Krystal glanced out at a quiet cul-de-sac of McMansions stuffed like sausages into a sliver of prime Buckhead real estate in north Atlanta. She remembered how she met Mr. Jim Peyton, esteemed Atlanta plastic surgeon.
    Only two years ago, she had been the reigning Miss Vidalia Onion Festival Queen from Tombs County, a dry plot of dirt in southwest Georgia, hundreds of miles from anywhere that resembled civilization. Being queen had its rewards. Besides receiving a sparkling, cubic-zirconia tiara and shiny new 4×4 Ford pickup truck, she had earned an all-expenses-paid, three-day, two-night trip to the bright lights and big city of Atlanta, Georgia, for a whirlwind Labor Day weekend, a month after her crowning.
    Racing away from Tombs County with the windows down and the wind in her long, bleached blonde hair, Krystal swore she would never come back to that tiny speck of dust on the map. Less than three weeks later, she had stumbled into the path of Dr. Jim Woodward when she threatened his receptionist to set an appointment with the busy doctor. As Onion Queen, she had also received five thousand dollars, intended for the recipient’s use as college tuition, but Krystal decided the funds would be better used as payment for breast implants.
    Cold and bare-chested in the handsome doctor’s examination room, she noticed he did not wear a wedding band. They were married a month later and honeymooned in Costa Rica, a fresh new pair of enormous fake breasts joining the happy couple.
    Krystal pushed down the windowpane and considered how grateful she was that men could be so stupid.
    Next to the window, the top of a white, lacquered bedside table overflowed with her stepdaughter’s collection of nail polish and magazines. An actress with pearl-white teeth and perfect, glowing skin winked at her from the top of the pile. Beside the face, a blurb promised an article inside the slick pages about herbal remedies for cellulite.
    As Krystal snatched the magazine and tucked it under her arm, a folded sheet of paper fell from inside the glossy pages. Kneeling to fetch the scrap, she realized what lay atop her precious, pedicured toes. The scrap of paper was a photocopy of a newspaper article from her hometown newspaper, with yellow-highlighting accentuating the opening lines:
    The