The sand was warm against my back, still holding the heat from the afternoon sun even as it started to dip toward the horizon. I could feel every grain pressed against my skin—shoulders, hips, the curve of my spine—and I shifted slightly, arching just enough to catch the golden light the way Marco wanted.

  "Beautiful, Vixen, beautiful!" Marco called out from behind his camera, the shutter clicking in rapid succession. "Now turn your head—yes, like that—chin down just a touch—perfect! You're a goddess, darling, absolutely stunning!"

  I smiled, not the big commercial smile but something softer, more natural. My hair spilled across the sand like copper silk, and I could feel the ocean breeze pying with the ends, lifting them gently. The waves crashed somewhere behind Marco and his crew, a rhythmic soundtrack to the shoot.

  "Give me that look over your shoulder," Marco directed. "Sultry but elegant. You know the one."

  I did. I'd been doing this for years—long enough to know exactly what worked, what sold, what made a photograph transcend from pretty to *art*. I rolled onto my side, propped myself up on one elbow, let my free hand rest on the curve of my hip. The sunset painted everything gold and pink, and I knew without seeing the shots that they'd be gorgeous.

  "YES! That's it! Hold that—just like that—"

  Click. Click. Click.

  This was my job. My career. And I was damn good at it.

  "Alright, let's take five!" Marco announced, lowering his camera. "Vixen, you're killing it, babe. We're almost done, just need to wait for the light to shift a bit more."

  I sat up, reaching for the silk robe one of the assistants handed me. I wrapped it around myself—not out of modesty, but because the breeze was getting cooler—and walked over to where my phone sat on top of my bag.

  Three missed calls. Two text messages.

  The first was from Mom:

  **Mom:** *Vixen, honey, please tell me you're coming to the family reunion next month. Your father and I haven't seen you in ages. We miss you. Love you. ??*

  I smiled, typing back quickly: *Of course I'm coming. Wouldn't miss it. Love you too.*

  The second message made me pause:

  **Mom:** *How's your brother doing? I worry about him. That job of his is so stressful.*

  I stared at the message for a long moment, thinking about my twin. My other half. Fox.

  I typed slowly: *He's okay, Mom. You know how he is. Dedicated. Stubborn. Works too hard.*

  But even as I sent it, I wondered if that was true. When was the st time I'd actually talked to him? Really talked, not just a quick text or a missed call? I knew his job was rough—chasing down deadbeat parents, serving papers to people who didn't want to be found, dealing with the worst of people's irresponsibility day after day.

  It had to wear on him.

  I thought about calling him, but Marco was already waving me back over. "Light's perfect, Vixen! Let's finish this up!"

  I set my phone down, shed the robe, and walked back to my spot on the sand. As I settled back into position—on my side, one leg bent, hand in my hair—I made a mental note to check in with him ter.

  He was my brother. My twin. And if he needed help with something, I'd be there.

  No questions asked.

  "Gorgeous! Now give me fierce—yes!—you're incredible, Vixen!"

  The camera clicked. The waves crashed. The sun painted everything gold.

  And somewhere across the city, I knew my brother was probably still at his desk, chain-smoking and chasing ghosts.

  I'd call him tonight.