The Intruder

The Influencer

Book 3

Adriane Leigh

THE INTRUDER

Adriane Leigh

Copyright © 2024 by Adriane Leigh

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Praise for The Influencer

“What a wild ride!”

“Intense. Addicting. Toxically diabolical.”

“Addicting and toxic. Absolutely phenomenal from start to finish. I couldn’t put this one down.”

“A psychological thrill ride. Hello Mr. Ripley! A slow journey into obsession. Dark, twisted, and great for mystery fans.”

“Wow! What did I just read!!?? Had me flipping the pages right to the spectacular, mindblowing, I-didn't-see-that-coming ending!”

Author Note

The Intruder is the third book in the series and is best enjoyed after reading The Influencer and The Imposter.

Description

The Influencer #3

How far would you go to reclaim the life you were denied?

Shae Halston wears her lies like a second skin. The dutiful daughter. The perfect wife. The loving caregiver. After a lifetime of betrayal, abandonment, and unspeakable abuse, Shae has learned one truth—revenge is the only way to heal. When she takes a job caring for Kelly, a once-renowned therapist left helpless and disfigured after a tragic accident, Shae sees it as the perfect opportunity.

Because Kelly isn’t just her patient. She’s the woman who destroyed Shae’s life.

As secrets unravel and memories resurface, Shae’s grip on reality begins to slip. Kelly knows more than she lets on, and Shae’s carefully constructed revenge spirals into something far more dangerous. In a house filled with buried secrets and ghosts of the past, the line between victim and villain begins to blur.

How far will Shae go to punish the woman who left her? And what happens when the monster you’re hunting… is you?

Darkly twisted, chillingly intimate, and deeply unsettling, The Invader is a psychological thriller about generational trauma, manipulation, and the darkness that festers when revenge becomes an obsession. Perfect for fans of The Locked Door by Freida McFadden, Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn, and The Family Upstairs by Lisa Jewell, this story will haunt you long after you’ve turned the final page.

“Monsters are real. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.”

― Stephen King

Chapter One

“They found Brianna’s body.” I skim the paragraph quickly, then fold the newspaper and set it at the foot of the hospital bed. “It’s a wonder they could still identify her after a month at the bottom of the ocean. Poor thing.”

Kelly’s eyelids flicker but don’t open.

I know the bitch can hear me. Her eyelids do that flickering thing every time I speak to her. Only when I speak to her.

I’ve only been in Kelly’s condo for an hour and already this isn’t going like I’d hoped. I’m not sure what I expected exactly, but it wasn’t staring at a vegetable. Would it kill her to be a little more lively? I can’t help wondering why the hell they released her from the hospital if this is all she’s capable of. My eyes land on the patient chart that’s sitting on the bedside table. I drop the newspaper at the foot of Kelly’s bed and then lift the chart, scanning the first page for her list of medications. She’s on a truckload of tranquilizers and pain medications, and a whole list of others that I’m not familiar with.

Kelly lies propped up in her hospital bed by the window, her disfigured face framed in soft afternoon light. How poetic. The ocean view she probably paid a fortune for mocks her now. She can’t even turn her head to look at it. Not that she’d appreciate the irony—I’m here, her perfect revenge, in a space she can't escape. I still can’t believe how easy it was to waltz into her life as her acting caregiver—it seems like there should be more safety procedures to prevent something like this happening. The healthcare system is so messed up.

“Beautiful day, huh, Kelly?” I chirp, plucking a grape from the fruit bowl I set on her nightstand earlier. “You’re so lucky to have me here. Fresh ocean breeze, great views, top-tier care. You’ve hit the jackpot, really.”

She blinks once, slow and deliberate. I’ll give her credit; her body may be broken, but her mind is sharp. Her one good eye follows me like a laser, filled with rage and helplessness. It’s delicious.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I say, popping the grape into my mouth. “This is all your fault, remember? You thought you could fix me, mold me into one of your success stories. How’d that work out for you, huh?”

The answering silence is as satisfying as the crunch of the grape. I lean closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Oh, wait. You can’t answer, can you? My bad.”

Her breathing hitches, shallow and quick, the closest she can get to a retort. I laugh, the sound filling the sterile air. “Touché.”

The smell of antiseptic and salt air is an odd combination, but it suits the scene. Pismo Beach—a postcard of serenity on the outside, while inside this condo, chaos festers like a raw wound. I adjust the throw pillow on the chair, the one with the pastel seashells, because appearances are everything. If anyone drops by, this place needs to scream caregiver of the year, not psychopath in progress.

The landline rings—a relic in this day and age, but fitting for someone like Kelly. I let it ring twice, three times, before strolling over to answer.

“Hello, Kelly Fraser’s residence,” I sing.

“Oh, hi, this is Delia from Sunset Home Care. Just checking in about Kelly’s appointment with the nurse tomorrow morning.”

I grin at Kelly as I reply. “Oh, Delia! Thanks for calling, but we won’t be needing that anymore. I’m her daughter–I’ve decided to handle her care personally. We’re keeping things… intimate.”

“Oh,” Delia says, her voice faltering. “Are you sure? It’s quite a responsibility⁠—”

“Absolutely sure. No one understands her needs better than I do.” My gaze locks onto Kelly’s. “She deserves someone who truly knows her inside and out.”

“Well… if you’re confident. Please let us know if you change your mind.”

“Will do. Thanks, Delia.” I hang up and turn back to Kelly, clapping my hands. “There! No more strangers poking and prodding you. Just me. All. The. Time.”

Her fingers twitch slightly, a pathetic attempt at rebellion. I smirk and grab the framed photo I’ve been carrying around for two decades—a snapshot of my little sister Sophie and me as kids at the wharf in Santa Cruz. Sophie’s smile is wide and full of life; mine, less so, even back then. Only three years younger but a world apart. I prop the photo on Kelly’s nightstand, right next to the untouched bowl of grapes.

“Remember her?” I ask, tilting my head. “Your other daughter? The one who didn’t survive your brilliant parenting?”

The monitor beside her beeps faster, her chest rising and falling in uneven spurts. I lower myself into the chair by her bed, leaning in close enough to feel her shallow breaths.

“She died because of you. Because you couldn’t keep it together long enough to be a decent mother. And now? Look at us. Just you and me. One big happy family.”

Her eye glistens, a single tear trailing down her ruined cheek. I grab a tissue and dab it away with mock tenderness. “Aw, don’t cry. You’ll ruin what’s left of your face. And after all those expensive surgeries, too. Such a waste.”

I hear the soft pad of Toby’s paws behind me. Turning, I see the gray bulldog lounging by the patio door, his jowls drooping in that perpetually disinterested way. He’s the one thing I took from Isaac—the man that took my virginity as a teenager then left me to go back to his ex, Brianna. The man that I exacted revenge on just a few months ago by luring him into a relationship under the guise of being his therapist—Kelly—and then took everything he held dear from him and left him bleeding out on his basement floor. His drooling gray bulldog is the only thing that doesn’t disgust me now. Loyal, silent, and blissfully unaware of the chaos around him. A perfect companion.

“Look who came to say hi!” I say, scooping a dog treat from the bag in my tote. Toby wags his stubby tail as I toss the treat to him. He catches it mid-air, a rare burst of energy.

“See, Kelly? Even Toby likes me better than anyone else. You’re really missing out.”

Her gaze flicks to the photo on the nightstand, then back to me. I can almost hear her screaming in her head, accusing me of using Sophie’s memory as a weapon. Well, duh. That’s exactly what I’m doing.

“You thought I didn’t know, didn’t you?” I say, my voice low. “About you being my mother. About how you abandoned us like trash on the side of the road. And then—oh, this is rich—you pretended to help me for twenty years. What a saint.”

Her monitor beeps faster, the machine betraying her inner panic. I stand and stretch, letting the tension build like a symphony reaching its crescendo.

“Relax, Kelly. I’m not going to hurt you. Not physically, anyway. That would be too easy. Too quick.” I pause by the window, looking out at the waves crashing against the shore. “No, I want you to sit there and think about every single decision that led us here. Every failure, every lie. That’s the real torture, isn’t it?”

The smell of bleach lingers in the air as I move to the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers in search of something to entertain myself. I find a deck of cards, dusty but intact. Perfect.

“Let’s play a game,” I say, returning to her bedside. “I’ll deal, and you… well, you can just watch. I’ll even let you choose the game. Oh, wait.” I grin. “You can’t.”

I shuffle the cards slowly, the sound crisp and deliberate. Kelly’s good eye tracks my every move, her rage simmering just beneath the surface. It’s exhilarating, this dance of power, this unspoken war.

After a few rounds of solitaire—me narrating every move in excruciating detail—I tire of the game. Tossing the cards aside, I lean over her again, my tone suddenly serious.

“Do you regret it?” I ask. “Leaving us? Pretending to be someone you’re not? Because I regret a lot of things, Kelly, but not this. Never this.”

Her eye glistens again, but this time, I don’t bother with the tissue. Let her drown in it.

Toby nudges my leg, breaking the moment. I bend down to scratch behind his ears, his warm fur grounding me in a way I didn’t expect.

“At least he gets me,” I mutter. “You? Not so much.”

The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the room. I light a candle on the counter, the vanilla scent oddly comforting. It’s almost cozy, this twisted little world I’ve built.

As I settle into the armchair by the window, a strange calm washes over me. This is where I’m meant to be, with Kelly helpless and me in control. The perfect disguise, the perfect revenge.

“Goodnight, Kelly,” I say, my voice syrupy sweet. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the guilt bite.”

Her eye closes, but I know she’s not sleeping. Not really. The games are just beginning, and I’m the one holding all the cards.

Chapter Two

The air smells of salt and sunscreen, the kind of beachy perfume that would probably make someone else feel calm. I, however, feel like I'm choking. The breeze is sharp, slicing through the palm trees that sway above Kelly's wheelchair. I grip the handles tightly, my knuckles whitening.

She sits there, slumped, her head tilted slightly forward as if the effort of holding it upright is too much. Her blanket—the one I picked, mind you—is slipping off her lap. She doesn’t try to fix it, of course. Can’t fix it. Her hands rest uselessly on the armrests, and a thin string of drool escapes from the corner of her mouth. Disgusting.

“Let’s take a little walk,” I say brightly, pushing her down the boardwalk toward the beach. “It’s such a beautiful day, Kelly. You’re so lucky I’m generous enough to share it with you.”

She doesn’t respond, obviously. Not that she could if she wanted to. Her body is a prison now. A fitting end for someone who spent two decades pretending to help people escape their own.

I lean down close to her ear, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you even remember what the ocean sounds like, Kelly? Or does your brain rattle too much from all those drugs you’re on? Courtesy of me, of course.”

Her head jerks slightly. A flinch, maybe? Or just a muscle spasm. Either way, it’s good enough for me.

I steer her toward a spot where the sand glows gold in the afternoon sun. A lone surfer cuts through the waves, his body slicing cleanly through the water. He looks so... free. That pisses me off for some reason.

“You see that guy, Kelly?” I point him out as if she can follow my hand. “That’s what real freedom looks like. Not that you’d know much about it.”

Her breathing grows louder, more ragged. Probably trying to communicate something, though I’ll never know what. Not that I care.

I park her wheelchair near the edge of the boardwalk, where the sand gives way to wooden planks. The surfer catches a wave and rides it expertly to shore. For a second, I think about shoving Kelly’s wheelchair forward, just enough to let the sand trap her there. The tide would do the rest.

But then the surfer starts walking toward us, and my blood runs cold.

It’s him. Taylor. My nosy neighbor from Carmel.

I blink hard, hoping I’m wrong, but the closer he gets, the clearer it becomes. Same tan, same sun-bleached hair, same casual swagger. What the hell is he doing here?

“Kelly?” His voice is warm, surprised. “Wow. Is that you?”

Crap. I plaster on a smile, the kind that’s just wide enough to seem genuine. “Taylor! What are the odds?”

He laughs, brushing water off his chest. “Small world, huh? I didn’t know you were down here. Pismo’s one of my favorite beaches.”

“Mine too,” I lie. “I moved here recently to take care of my mother.”

He looks at Kelly, his expression softening. God, people like him make me sick with their sincerity. “This is your mom?”

“Yep,” I say, popping the p. “She’s had some health issues, but I’m doing everything I can to make her comfortable.”

Kelly makes a low sound, almost like a groan, and I quickly grab a tissue to dab at her drool. My hands tremble slightly. I can’t tell if it’s from anger or fear.

Taylor crouches down to Kelly’s level, his eyes kind despite the horrifying scars stretching across her face. “Hey there. I’m Taylor. It’s nice to meet you.”

She doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. Thank God for small mercies.

“She’s nonverbal,” I explain, forcing a note of sadness into my voice. “The surgeries... they took a lot out of her.”

He straightens up, his gaze shifting back to me. “That’s tough. You must have a lot on your plate.”

I shrug, trying to look modest. “I manage. It’s worth it, you know? Family is everything.”

The words taste like ash in my mouth. Taylor doesn’t seem to notice.

“I always knew you were strong,” he says, his voice full of admiration. “Even back in Carmel, you had this way about you. Like nothing could break you.”

My cheeks flush, and it’s not just from the sun. Is he... complimenting me?

Kelly lets out another sound, louder this time, and I immediately grab her water bottle. “Sorry,” I say quickly. “She gets agitated sometimes. Probably just thirsty.”

I tilt the bottle toward her lips, more aggressively than I intend to. Water dribbles down her chin, mixing with the drool. Taylor’s watching me closely now, and I can feel the weight of his gaze.

“You’re really good with her,” he says after a moment. “It’s not easy to take care of someone in her condition.”

I let out a short laugh. “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m a professional. I’ve definitely made some mistakes.”

“That’s normal,” he says reassuringly. “Nobody’s perfect.”

There’s something about his tone that makes me want to believe him. That’s dangerous. People like him—good people—are a weakness I can’t afford.

“So, what brings you to Pismo?” I ask, desperate to steer the conversation away from myself.

“I come down here to surf a lot,” he says, gesturing to the board tucked under his arm. “It clears my head. What about you? How are you holding up after everything in Carmel?”

The question punches me in the gut. My smile falters for a split second before I recover. “Oh, you know. New beginnings and all that.”

He nods, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable answer. “Well, if you ever need anything, I’m just a call away. Seriously–my mom lives a few blocks from here so I spend time down this way a lot.”

The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tighten. Does he actually mean that? Could someone like him really care about someone like me?

I force a laugh. “Thanks, Taylor. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He flashes me one last smile before heading back toward the waves. I watch him go, my thoughts a chaotic mess. Kelly makes another noise, this one almost like a laugh. I whip around to face her, my anger bubbling over.

“Shut up,” I hiss. “You think this is funny? You think I don’t know how close I just came to being found out?”

Her eye glints with something that looks like triumph, and it’s enough to push me over the edge. I grab the wheelchair handles and start pushing her back toward the condo, my steps fast and furious.

By the time we’re inside, my breath is ragged, and my hands are shaking. I park her in the living room and collapse onto the couch, my mind racing.

Taylor’s kindness has left a crack in my armor, and I hate it. People like him are too good to be true. They always want something in the end. But what if, just this once, he doesn’t? What if he actually likes me?

The thought is as terrifying as it is intoxicating.

Kelly makes another sound, and I glare at her. “Don’t look so smug. This isn’t over.”

She blinks slowly, her expression unreadable. I grab the remote and turn on the TV, the noise filling the silence. But no matter how loud I make it, I can’t drown out the questions swirling in my head.

Could someone like Taylor really see me? The real me? And if he does... what happens next?

Chapter Three

The sun filters through the gauzy curtains of Kelly’s beachside condo the next morning, bathing the living room in golden light. The tranquil scene feels wrong, like a Hallmark card wrapped around a razor blade. I stand by the kitchen counter, the morning dose of Kelly’s medications spread out before me like a deranged apothecary’s experiment. Pills, syringes, tiny bottles of viscous fluids. All of them carefully selected for their effects—or lack thereof.

“You’re so lucky, Kelly,” I call over my shoulder, my tone sickly sweet. “Most people don’t get this level of personalized care. I’m practically a saint.”

She doesn’t respond, obviously. She just stares at the ceiling, her face frozen in that half-melted, half-blank expression that’s become her signature look. I shake a pill into my palm, considering it for a moment before slipping it back into the bottle.

“Oops,” I mutter. “Looks like someone’s skipping their pain meds today. You don’t mind, do you? Thought so.”

I prepare the syringe next, flicking the needle with my finger for that dramatic movie effect. It’s not strictly necessary, but it makes me feel like I’m in control. I walk over to her, my steps echoing on the hardwood floor. She’s strapped into the reclining chair I set up for her in the living room. Easier access for me, harder escape for her. Not that she’s going anywhere.

“This might sting,” I say, feigning a nurse's sympathy as I jab the needle into her thigh. Her body jerks slightly, the only movement she’s capable of. I lean in close, brushing her matted hair away from her face.

“There, there,” I whisper. “All better. Don’t you just love our little morning routine?”

Her eye flicks toward me, filled with something that might be hatred—or just primal fear. Either way, it’s delicious. I grab a tissue and dab at the corner of her mouth, where a string of saliva glistens.

“You really should work on your presentation, Kelly,” I say, tossing the tissue into the trash. “Drooling doesn’t exactly scream ‘put-together professional.’ Not that you’ve got clients to impress anymore.”

I settle onto the couch with my coffee, savoring the silence. Toby pads over, his gray bulldog frame solid and comforting. I scratch behind his ears, letting the rhythmic sound of his panting drown out the whispers in my own head.

“You’re the only one who gets me, you know that?” I tell him. “Loyal, quiet, and you don’t ask stupid questions. Unlike your last owner.”

Toby tilts his head as if he understands. I laugh, the sound sharp and brittle. “Don’t worry, buddy. You’re better off with me.”

The doorbell rings, breaking the fragile quiet. My stomach twists. I haven’t been expecting anyone. I glance at Kelly, who’s as useless as ever, and set my coffee down. Toby barks once, his tail wagging like the oblivious idiot he is.

I open the door and there he is—Taylor, holding a paper bag that smells unmistakably like tacos. His smile is easy, warm, and completely out of place in my meticulously controlled chaos.

“Hey,” he says, lifting the bag. “Thought I’d stop by and bring breakfast tacos. Hope that’s okay.”

My mind races. Is this a trap? Is he here to dig into my past, my lies? But his eyes are so damn sincere that it disarms me. For a second, I forget how dangerous kindness can be.

“Of course,” I say, stepping aside to let him in. “Tacos are kind of our thing.” I think back to the afternoon he delivered tacos to my doorstep in Carmel. It feels like a lifetime ago now, but in reality it’s been only a few months.

He chuckles, setting the bag on the counter. “Tacos are the perfect food. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

I glance at Kelly, making sure she’s not drooling too obviously. “Well, you’ve got good timing. I was just about to take Toby for a walk.”

“Perfect,” he says. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” I say, too quickly. The warmth in his smile makes my chest tighten. Damn him.

I grab Toby’s leash, and we head outside. The air is cool, the ocean breeze carrying the scent of salt and seaweed. Taylor falls into step beside me, his presence steady and unassuming.

“How’s your mom doing?” he asks, glancing back at the condo.

I shrug, keeping my tone light. “She’s... stable. It’s a lot of work, but I manage. She’s lucky to have me.”

He nods, his expression thoughtful. “Being a caregiver is no joke. You’re doing an amazing thing.”

“Yeah, well, someone has to do it,” I say, brushing off the compliment. The last thing I need is to start believing him.

We walk in silence for a moment, Toby sniffing every blade of grass along the way. Taylor finally breaks the quiet.

“Are you still seeing patients?” he asks.

I hesitate, weighing my options. “Only on Zoom,” I say. “It’s hard to juggle everything, but I’m managing. Barely.”

He smiles, his eyes soft with admiration. “That’s impressive. I don’t know how you do it.”

I laugh, the sound hollow. “Pure stubbornness.”

“What about that couple you mentioned? Brianna and Isaac, right?”

My heart skips a beat. Does he know? No, he can’t. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy that reads the newspaper, so I’m assuming he doesn’t realize that Brianna’s body was found in the bay. Or maybe he does and this is just him testing me to see if I know. Stay calm, Shae.

“I’m not seeing them anymore,” I say, keeping my tone even. “Isaac’s been... distant. Probably focusing on repairing things with his wife.”

“Hmm,” Taylor says, his brow furrowing. “That’s too bad. Toby seems like a great dog. You’d think Isaac would want him back.”

“He’s had my number this whole time,” I say with a shrug. “But I haven’t heard from him in weeks. Guess he’s moved on.”

Taylor nods, and I change the subject, steering the conversation away from dangerous territory. We talk about the weather, the beach, anything safe. By the time we circle back to the condo, I’ve almost convinced myself that I’m in control.

Taylor lingers at the door, his hand brushing mine as I unlock it. The contact sends a jolt through me, and I curse myself for feeling anything at all.

“Well,” he says, his voice softer now. “I should let you get back to your day.”

“Thanks for the tacos,” I say, my words awkward and stilted. I’m not used to this—kindness, warmth. It’s foreign and unsettling.

Before I can pull away, he leans in, his lips brushing mine in a tentative kiss. It’s so soft, so gentle, that it takes me a moment to process what’s happening.

When he pulls back, his eyes search mine, waiting for a reaction. My heart pounds in my chest, a chaotic rhythm I can’t control.

“See you around, Shae,” he says, his voice tinged with hope.

I nod, unable to speak, and watch him walk away. As soon as he’s out of sight, I slam the door and lean against it, my breath coming in short gasps.

Damn him. Damn his kindness, his warmth, his stupid tacos. He’s a crack in my armor, and I can’t afford cracks. Not now. Not ever.

Chapter Four

Iwalk back into the kitchen with Toby at my heels, his nails clicking on the polished floor. The ocean air lingers on my skin, mingling with the faint medicinal tang that seems to cling to everything in this place. Kelly's still in the same spot where I left her, propped up in her hospital bed like a grotesque porcelain doll, her melted features a silent testament to my handiwork. I blink away the memory of the day I destroyed her face with hot coals at Pacific View Psychiatric Hospital. It’s been almost a year since I took over Kelly’s life, living in her house and seeing her clients. Impersonating a therapist was fun for a while… until it wasn’t.

Her eye follows me as I close the door and lock it. Click. A sound that used to comfort her patients. Not anymore.

“Did you miss me?” I call, tossing Toby’s leash onto the side table. “Toby says hi. He’s better company than you, you know. And he drools all over himself just like you do.”

Kelly’s lips twitch. It could be pain, a weak attempt at expression, or just another involuntary spasm. I like to imagine it’s a pathetic attempt at indignation. I stride to the kitchen and grab a glass of water, taking my time, letting the silence hang heavy.

“You look... restless,” I say, walking back and setting the glass on the nightstand. “Should we chat? You’ve been so quiet lately. Or is that just the muscle relaxants kicking in?”

I lean closer, close enough to see the veins spidering under her skin, the way her pulse flutters in her neck. Weak. Trapped. Helpless. A work of art I’ve curated with precision.

“I brought you something,” I say, reaching into my bag. My fingers close around the folded paper, smooth and crisp. “A little piece of our history. Well, my history. You’ve conveniently forgotten yours.”

Her eye narrows slightly. Good. She’s paying attention.

I unfold the birth certificate slowly, theatrically, like a magician revealing a trick. The edges are slightly yellowed, the ink faded but still legible.

“Shae Bianca Miller,” I read aloud, savoring each syllable. “Mother: KellyAnne Miller. Father: Robert Miller. Born August 8th. You remember, don’t you? Or is your memory as mangled as your face?”

Kelly’s chest rises and falls unevenly. Her eye darts to the notepad I left on the nightstand earlier. Oh, she’s going to play along. How delightful.

I grab the notepad and a pen, placing them in her trembling hand. “Go on,” I say, my voice dripping with mock encouragement. “Write something profound. Let’s see if that genius therapist brain of yours still works.”

Her fingers jerk against the pen, shaky and slow. It’s almost painful to watch. Almost. She scrawls something, her breathing shallow and labored.

Why are you doing this?

I laugh. It bubbles up uncontrollably, sharp and acidic. “Why? Oh, Kelly, that’s rich. You really don’t know, do you? Or maybe you’ve just blocked it out. Convenient.”

I hold the birth certificate up again, shaking it for emphasis. “You forgot this little detail, didn’t you? Or did you think I’d never find out? Twenty years of therapy. Twenty years of me spilling my guts while you sat there, pretending to care, pretending you weren’t the woman who abandoned me. What was the plan? Keep me clueless forever?”

Her eye closes briefly, a flicker of shame—or maybe just exhaustion. Either way, it’s not enough.

“Look at me,” I snap. “You owe me that much.”

Her eye opens, glassy and wide, fixed on mine. Good. She should see every ounce of my rage, my disgust.

“You’re not a mother,” I say, my voice low and venomous. “You’re a liar. A coward. You left me with him. Do you know what he did to us? To Sophie?”

Her face contorts slightly, the closest she can get to an expression of anguish. I lean in, my voice dropping to a whisper.

“She’s dead because of you. Because you couldn’t handle being a parent. Because you walked away and left us to rot.”

Kelly’s breathing quickens, her chest heaving with effort. I step back, tossing the notepad onto her lap. “Go on,” I say. “Admit it. Write it down. Tell me you knew. Tell me you sat there all those years, listening to me talk about my broken life, and said nothing.”

Her hand shakes as she picks up the pen again. The scrawl is even messier this time, the letters barely legible. I grab the pad and squint at the words.

I’m sorry. I wrote letters⁠—

I laugh again, the sound cold and hollow. “Sorry? That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? Pathetic.”

I crumple the paper and toss it onto the floor. “You’re sorry? That doesn’t bring Sophie back. That doesn’t erase the nights we spent locked in a closet while he was out drinking. That doesn’t undo the years of therapy I wasted thinking you were some kind of savior.”

Her eye glistens with tears, but I don’t let it soften me. Not now. Not ever.

“You don’t get to cry,” I say, my voice sharp as a blade. “You don’t get to feel bad. You lost that right the day you walked out.”

I pace the room, my hands trembling with adrenaline. This isn’t enough. Her apology, her tears—they’re meaningless. I need her to suffer, to understand the depth of what she’s done.

“You know what’s funny?” I say, turning back to her. “I used to think you were perfect. I wanted to be you. I even took your name for a while, played the part of the perfect therapist. It was almost convincing. Almost.”

I grab the photo frame from her nightstand, the one I placed there as a cruel reminder. It’s a picture of me and Sophie as kids at the beach, smiling and oblivious, long before the world went to hell.

“This is all your fault,” I say, shoving the frame in her face. “You should have been there. You should have saved us. But you didn’t. And now she’s gone, and I’m... well, look at me. Look at what you made me.”

Kelly’s eye closes again, and for a moment, I think she’s passed out. But then her hand moves, reaching for the notepad. I grab it and thrust it into her hand.

“Fine,” I say. “One more chance. Write something meaningful, or I swear to God, I’ll make you wish you’d never woken up.”

Her hand moves slower this time, the pen scratching against the paper. When she’s done, I snatch it from her.

I loved you. Always.

I freeze, the words hitting me like a punch to the gut. My chest tightens, my breath catching in my throat. No. This is another manipulation, another lie.

“Don’t,” I say, my voice shaking. “Don’t you dare play that card.”

Her eye meets mine, filled with something I can’t decipher. Regret? Pity? Love? It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

I rip the page from the notepad and crumple it in my fist. “You don’t get to love me now,” I say, my voice rising. “You had your chance, and you blew it. This? This is all on you.”

The room is silent except for the sound of her labored breathing. I throw the crumpled paper into the trash and storm out of the room, slamming the door behind me.

In the hallway, I lean against the wall, my heart pounding in my chest. Her words replay in my mind, taunting me, unraveling me.

I loved you. Always.

No. She doesn’t get to have that. She doesn’t get to rewrite history. She’s not the victim here. I am.

Toby pads over, his big brown eyes filled with concern. I crouch down and bury my face in his fur, my hands gripping his collar.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “I’m okay. She can’t hurt me anymore.”

But the truth is, she already has.

Chapter Five

The condo is quiet when I step back inside from Toby’s walk, but it’s not the kind of quiet that soothes. It’s heavy, pressing, like the air itself knows what’s about to happen. Toby follows me, his nails clicking against the hardwood, a comforting reminder that at least someone here relies on me.

I glance toward Kelly’s room. She’s there, of course, right where I left her, just as helpless and pathetic as always. It would be easier to leave her like that—to walk out of this condo, down to the beach, and never look back. But easy isn’t my style. Besides, I’m not done with her yet. Not by a long shot.

“Did you enjoy your little nap?” I call out, strolling into the room. “Hope it was restful because things are about to get... eventful.”

Her eye flutters open, one glassy, unblinking orb that never seems to stop staring at me. Haunted, filled with an emotion I refuse to acknowledge as guilt. No, she doesn’t get to feel bad. Not after everything she’s done.

I set the bag of groceries on the counter, making a show of unpacking it. Apples, bread, a bottle of wine. Nothing she’ll get to enjoy, of course. Just props for the life I’ve built around this little charade.

“You know,” I say, tossing an apple between my hands, “I’ve been thinking. About Sophie. About what she went through after you walked out. Did you ever think about her? Or was she just collateral damage in your little escape plan?”

Her lips tremble, but no sound comes out. They never do. It’s almost disappointing. I grab the wheelchair and roll it closer to the bed, the metal wheels squeaking against the floor.

“Let’s take a trip down memory lane,” I say, my voice dripping with faux cheer. “You and me. A mother-daughter bonding moment. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

She doesn’t respond—not that she can—but her eye widens slightly. Fear. Good. She should be afraid.

I lift her out of the bed, her frail body limp in my arms. She’s lighter than I remember, a skeleton wrapped in paper-thin skin. I strap her into the wheelchair, tightening the belt just a little too much, savoring the way her body stiffens.

“There we go,” I say, giving the chair a playful spin. “Ready for the grand tour?”

The closet is small, barely big enough to fit her wheelchair, but that’s part of the charm. It’s dark, claustrophobic, the perfect recreation of the place Sophie and I spent so many nights locked away while our father drowned his sorrows in whiskey.

“Does this look familiar?” I ask, wheeling her inside. “No? Let me jog your memory.”

I grab the baby monitor from the kitchen counter—another prop, another piece of the puzzle—and place it on a shelf above her head. With a few taps on my phone, the cries of a baby fill the air, shrill and piercing.

“You hear that?” I whisper, leaning in close. “That’s what Sophie sounded like when she was scared. When she called for you, and you weren’t there.”

Her breathing quickens, shallow and frantic. I can see the panic in her eye, the way her fingers twitch against the armrests. She tries to shake her head, to protest, but it’s too late for that.

“You should’ve been there,” I say, my voice hardening. “You should’ve protected us. But instead, you left. And now? Now you get to feel what we felt.”

I slam the closet door shut, plunging her into darkness. The baby’s cries continue, echoing through the tiny space, relentless and unforgiving. I stand there for a moment, listening, letting the sound wash over me. It’s not enough. Not yet.

I head to the living room and grab my laptop, queuing up a video I found online—a married couple screaming at each other, their voices raw and venomous. It’s a masterpiece of domestic chaos, the kind of thing that seeps into your soul and leaves scars.

I press play and slide the iPad under the closet door. The shouting fills the condo, blending with the baby’s cries into a symphony of despair. Perfect.

“Enjoy the show,” I call out, my voice cheerful. “It’s a classic. Really captures the essence of our childhood, don’t you think?”

I walk away, leaving her to drown in the noise. Toby follows me to the couch, curling up at my feet with a heavy sigh. I run my fingers through his fur, my mind racing.

This should feel satisfying. It should feel like justice. But instead, there’s a hollowness, a gnawing emptiness that won’t go away. I think about Sophie, about the way she used to cling to me, her tiny hands gripping my shirt like I was the only thing keeping her tethered to this world.

She didn’t deserve what happened to her. None of it. And yet, here I am, alive and well, while she’s nothing more than a memory. A ghost haunting the edges of my mind.

I grab the bottle of wine from the kitchen and pour myself a glass, the rich, red liquid glinting in the light. I take a sip, letting it burn its way down my throat.

“What do you think, Toby?” I ask, staring at the closet door. “Am I going too far? Or not far enough?”

He doesn’t answer, of course. He just looks at me with those big, trusting eyes, like I’m the center of his universe. It’s almost enough to make me feel human again.

Almost.

The cries and shouting from the closet start to blend together, a cacophony of misery that fills the condo. I sip my wine and close my eyes, letting the sound wash over me. It’s not peace, exactly, but it’s something close to it.

And then, the guilt creeps in, insidious and unwelcome. It whispers in my ear, reminding me that this isn’t justice. It’s cruelty. It’s revenge. And it won’t bring Sophie back.

I finish the glass and pour another, trying to drown the guilt before it takes root. I can’t afford to feel anything. Not now. Not ever.

The night drags on, the sounds from the closet fading into the background like white noise. I sit on the couch, staring at nothing, my mind a swirling mess of memories and regrets.

When the baby’s cries finally stop, replaced by silence, I know she’s reached her breaking point. Good. That’s what I wanted. That’s what she deserves.

I stand and walk to the closet, opening the door just enough to see her slumped in the wheelchair, her head hanging low. Her eye flickers open, glassy and unfocused.

“Did you enjoy the show?” I ask, my voice laced with sarcasm. “It’s a real tearjerker, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t respond, of course. She just sits there, broken and defeated. And for the first time, I feel a flicker of something that scares me more than anything else.

Pity.

I shake it off, hardening my heart. She doesn’t deserve my pity. She doesn’t deserve anything.

“You should get some rest,” I say, wheeling her back to her bed. “Big day tomorrow. Lots more memories to relive.”

She doesn’t fight me. She doesn’t have the strength. And as I tuck her in, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve finally gone too far.

But then I think about Sophie, about the life we could’ve had if Kelly had stayed. And I know, deep down, that I’ll never stop. Not until she’s felt every ounce of the pain she caused us.

Not until she’s as broken as I am.

Chapter Six

The morning light seeps through the blinds, thin and watery, barely illuminating the wreckage I call my life. I’m perched at the kitchen counter, staring at the remains of a stale croissant, while Toby watches me like I’m the next meal.

“Don’t judge me,” I mutter, breaking off a piece of pastry and tossing it his way. He snatches it mid-air, tail wagging in smug satisfaction. At least one of us is happy.

I glance at the baby monitor on the counter. The feed from Kelly’s room is silent now, save for the occasional beep of her heart monitor. The chaos I left her with last night—the crying, the screaming—must have finally pushed her into the only reprieve she has left: unconsciousness.

For now.

But as I step into her room, her fingers twitch. A small movement, barely perceptible, but enough to send a jolt of electricity down my spine. Her eyelids flutter, a slow, laborious effort, and I feel the air thicken with something. Panic, maybe. Or rage.

She’s waking up.

“Well, look who’s decided to join us,” I say, forcing a grin. “Back from the land of nod, are we? Don’t get too comfortable.”

Her eye cracks open, and for a moment, I see something there—recognition, maybe. Or accusation. Both make my stomach churn. I can’t have her regaining control. Not now. Not ever.

I stalk toward her, my steps deliberate, the heels of my boots echoing against the hardwood. “You know, you’ve got a lot of nerve,” I say, leaning over her. “After everything you’ve done, you still think you deserve to come back from the brink? To be... what? Forgiven?”

Her lips part slightly, but no sound comes out. Her disfigured face is a patchwork of pink scars and glossy skin grafts, a grotesque reminder of my handiwork. I should feel triumphant looking at her like this. I should feel powerful. Instead, I feel a gnawing unease.

I grab the notepad from her bedside table and shove it into her lap. “Go ahead,” I snap. “Write your excuses. Tell me how it’s all someone else’s fault. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Manipulate. Deflect. Lie.”

Her fingers tremble as they clutch the pen. She scrawls something slowly, painfully. The scratching sound of the pen on paper feels like nails on a chalkboard. When she finally pushes the notepad toward me, I snatch it up and read the single word she’s managed to scrawl:

Why?

I laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “Why? You mean, why am I doing this? Or why did you abandon me and Sophie? Or why did you lie to me for twenty years, pretending to be my therapist when you were really just the coward who gave birth to me?”

Her eye widens slightly, and I lean in closer, close enough to see the tears pooling at the corners. “You don’t get to ask questions,” I hiss. “You lost that right the moment you walked out on us.”

She scribbles again, her movements slow but deliberate. I snatch the notepad before she’s finished, reading her shaky handwriting:

Your father. He...

I freeze, the words twisting something deep inside me. “Oh, don’t you dare,” I whisper. “Don’t you dare try to make this about him.”

I toss it back into her lap. She keeps writing, her letters uneven and jagged: He was dangerous. I couldn’t⁠—

“Stop!” I slam the notepad onto the bedside table, the sound reverberating through the room. Toby barks from the other room, startled by my outburst. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down.

“You don’t get to rewrite history,” I say, my voice low and venomous. “You don’t get to play the victim. You left us. You left me. And now, you’re going to pay for it.”

I grab the wheelchair and push it toward the bathroom. “Time for a bath,” I announce, my tone mockingly cheerful. “Can’t have you stinking up the place, now can we?”

The bathroom is cold, sterile, the tiles slick under my boots. I fill the tub with water, making sure it’s just shy of scalding. Steam rises in thick clouds, curling around us like smoke.

I strip her of the thin hospital gown she’s wearing, ignoring the way her body shudders. “What’s the matter?” I ask, my tone dripping with false concern. “Not used to being vulnerable? Welcome to my world.”

I lower her into the tub, her body going rigid as the hot water engulfs her. She tries to move, to protest, but she’s too weak. Too broken. I grab a toothbrush from the counter and smear toothpaste onto it, the sickly sweet scent filling the air.

“Open wide,” I say, holding it in front of her mouth. “Time to freshen up.”

She clamps her lips shut, her single eye blazing with defiance. For a moment, I almost admire her. But then I remember who she is, what she’s done, and the admiration curdles into something darker.

“Suit yourself,” I say, tossing the toothbrush into the sink. “But don’t come crying to me when your breath smells like death.”

I leave her in the tub, the water lapping against her frail body, and head back to the bedroom. The notepad sits on the bedside table, her unfinished message taunting me.

He was dangerous. I couldn’t⁠—

What does that even mean? Is she trying to justify abandoning us? Blaming Dad for her failures? It’s pathetic. And yet... there’s a part of me that wants to know. That needs to know.

I grab the notepad and storm back into the bathroom. She’s slumped in the tub, her head tilted to the side, her breathing shallow.

“Explain,” I demand, shoving the notepad into her lap. “If you’re going to play the victim, at least do it properly.”

She hesitates, her gaze flicking between me and the notepad. Finally, she starts to write, her movements slow and deliberate. When she pushes the notepad back to me, I read her words:

He hurt me. I couldn’t stay. I thought you’d be safer without me.

I laugh, the sound harsh and hollow. “Safer? You thought leaving me with that monster was safer? Do you have any idea what he did to us? To Sophie?”

Her eye fills with tears, and for a moment, I see something there—regret, maybe. Or shame. It doesn’t matter. It’s too little, too late.

“You’re pathetic,” I say, my voice trembling with rage. “You abandoned us. You left us to suffer. And now you want me to feel sorry for you? It’s not going to happen.”

I grab her by the arms and lift her out of the tub, ignoring the way her body shakes. I wrap her in a towel and dump her back into the wheelchair, her wet hair dripping onto the tiles.

“You don’t get to explain,” I say, pushing her back into the bedroom. “You don’t get to make excuses. You lost that right the day you walked out.”

I strap her into the bed and leave the room, slamming the door behind me. My hands are shaking, my mind racing.

I thought this would be satisfying. I thought breaking her would make me feel whole again. But all it’s done is open old wounds, wounds that refuse to heal.

Toby nudges my leg, his big eyes full of concern. I sink to the floor and bury my face in his fur, the tears finally spilling over.

“She doesn’t deserve forgiveness,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “She doesn’t deserve anything.”

And yet, deep down, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe—just maybe—I’m the one who’s truly broken.

Chapter Seven

The wardrobe door creaks open, revealing a row of soft pastels I pulled from thrift stores earlier this week. Blouses with Peter Pan collars, floral skirts that sway just enough, even a pair of sensible flats. They’re the antithesis of me—the real me—but that’s the point.

I choose a pale pink dress with tiny daisies dotting the fabric and hold it up to the light. “What do you think, Kelly?” I ask, turning to the bed where she lies motionless, her breaths shallow. “Does it scream Sophie?”

Her one working eye glares at me, and I suppress a smile. “Oh, don’t give me that look. You should be thanking me. Sophie’s the good one, remember? Sweet. Kind. Everything you wanted in a daughter.” I pause, leaning closer to her. “And now, she’s here. With us. In the room.”

Her fingers twitch slightly, her only form of protest, and I laugh. “Don’t worry, Mom. She forgives you. Well, sort of.”

I slip into the dress, smoothing the fabric over my hips, and pin my hair back in a way that feels juvenile, almost saccharine. It’s perfect. Sweet Sophie, the shining light, is alive and well.

Except she’s not. She’s dead. And it’s all Kelly’s fault.

I kneel beside the bed, staring into Kelly’s disfigured face. The burns, the scars, the hollow shell of the woman who once held all the power. “Do you remember how she used to sing to herself when she thought no one was listening?” I whisper. “Her voice was so pure, so... innocent. Not like mine. My voice is sharp. Bitter. Yours is nonexistent now, so I guess we know who wins.”

Her breathing quickens, and I revel in the control. “She’s watching you, you know. Sophie. She’s here. She knows what you did to us. To her.” I lean closer, my lips nearly brushing her ear. “You ruined everything.”

The doorbell rings, shattering the moment. I straighten, smoothing my dress again as I head to the door, pulling it open to reveal Taylor standing there with his usual easy smile.

“Hey,” he says, holding up a bouquet of wildflowers. “Thought you might like these. They reminded me of you.”

I blink, momentarily thrown by the gesture. Flowers? For me? Sophie would have loved this. Shae doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Wow,” I manage, taking the bouquet and stepping aside to let him in. “You’re... full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Only the good kind, I hope,” he says, his gaze flicking to the soft colors of my dress. “You look... different. Good, but different.”

I force a laugh, twirling slightly to show off the dress. “Trying something new,” I say. “What do you think? Too much?”

“No,” he says quickly. “It’s... perfect.” His eyes soften, and I feel the strange warmth of his approval settling over me like a second skin.

“Let me put these in water,” I say, retreating to the kitchen to compose myself. My hands tremble as I arrange the flowers in a vase, and I catch my reflection in the window above the sink. Sophie stares back at me, her wide eyes and soft smile, her innocence that I’ve stolen for myself.

I turn back to Taylor, who’s leaning casually against the counter. “So, what brings you by?” I ask, forcing brightness into my voice. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“I wanted to see you,” he says simply. “And maybe... take you out to dinner? If you’re free.”

Dinner. A date. Normalcy. Sophie would be thrilled.

“I’d love to,” I say, the words surprising even me. “Just give me a minute to grab my purse.”

As I pass Kelly’s room, I glance inside. Her eye follows me, full of desperation, fury, and something else I can’t quite place. “Don’t wait up,” I whisper, shutting the door firmly behind me.

The restaurant is cozy, lit by soft candlelight that casts shadows on Taylor’s face. He holds the door for me, pulls out my chair, and even orders a bottle of wine without hesitation.

“You seem different tonight,” he says after our appetizers arrive. “I like it.”

“Different how?” I ask, tilting my head in what I hope is a Sophie-like manner.

“I don’t know,” he says, his smile soft. “Lighter. Happier.”

Sophie. He likes Sophie.

I sip my wine, letting the warmth spread through me. “Maybe I’m just in a good mood,” I say, keeping my voice light. “It’s been... nice. Spending time with you.”

His gaze lingers on me, and I feel a flicker of something. Connection? Vulnerability? Danger?

“So, what’s it like?” he asks suddenly. “Taking care of your mom?”

The question catches me off guard, and for a moment, the mask slips. “It’s... challenging,” I say, carefully choosing my words. “She’s... not who she used to be.”

“Must be hard,” he says, his voice full of genuine concern. “You’re doing something really amazing, you know that?”

I laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “Amazing? That’s one word for it.”

“I mean it,” he insists. “Most people wouldn’t step up like you have. It says a lot about who you are.”

Who I am. If only he knew.

“Thank you,” I say, forcing a smile. “That means a lot.”

The rest of the dinner passes in a blur of small talk and shared laughter. By the time he walks me to my door, the wine has softened the edges of my thoughts, and I find myself leaning closer to him.

“I had a great time tonight,” he says, his voice low and warm.

“Me too,” I whisper, the words barely audible.

His hand brushes mine, tentative, and my heart skips a beat. And then, he kisses me. Soft. Gentle. Everything Sophie would have wanted.

When he pulls back, his eyes search mine, and for a moment, I forget who I am. Who I’m supposed to be.

“Goodnight, Taylor,” I say, stepping inside and closing the door before I can lose myself completely.

Taylor’s presence unnerves me and also sends thrills of stubborn excitement through my system. This man is a wildcard that I never saw coming.

Kelly is awake when I return to her room, her eye fixed on me with a mix of curiosity and contempt.

“Did you miss me?” I ask, spinning slightly to show off the dress. “Taylor loved it, by the way. Said I looked... perfect.”

She blinks slowly, her only response, and I feel the rage bubbling beneath the surface.

“Do you think Sophie would’ve liked him?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “I think she would have. She liked nice things, good people. She wasn’t like me. She was...better.”

Kelly’s tears start again, slow and silent. I wonder if she’s crying for Sophie, or for herself. Probably both.

“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” I ask, leaning over her. “You hate that someone actually likes me. That someone sees me as more than just a broken, abandoned child.”

Her breathing quickens, and I smile. “Don’t worry, Mom. Sophie forgives you. She always forgives you. That’s what makes her better than me.”

I sit beside her, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. “She’s here, you know. In the room with us. Watching you. Judging you. Just like I am.”

Her eye fills with tears, and I feel a twisted sense of satisfaction. This is control. This is power.

“You ruined everything,” I whisper, my voice dripping with venom. “And now, you get to live with it. Every single day.”

She blinks, her only protest, and I laugh.

“Goodnight, Mom,” I say, turning off the lights. “Don’t let the guilt keep you awake.”

As I leave the room, I feel Sophie’s presence beside me, her soft smile a reminder of everything Kelly took from us. From me.

And for the first time in years, I feel like I’m winning.

Chapter Eight

The condo smells like lavender and antiseptic when I open the door. Kelly’s bedside diffuser gurgles softly, misting the room with a calming fragrance. I wrinkle my nose at the absurdity. Lavender for peace, relaxation, serenity—all things she doesn’t deserve.

It’s late, nearly midnight, and the only light in the room comes from the muted glow of her bedside lamp. I approach her bed slowly, my shoes tapping against the hardwood floor, each step punctuating my simmering irritation. There she is, sprawled on the pristine white sheets like a tragic work of art. Her disfigured face is slack, peaceful even, her one good eye fluttering shut in blissful sleep.

She’s comfortable.

My jaw clenches, heat rising to my cheeks. I hate it. She should never feel comfortable—not here, not in her own home, and definitely not under my watch. I was never allowed comfort. Not as a kid locked in a closet for hours while my father got drunk. Not as a teenager scrounging for scraps because feeding us slipped his mind. Not even as an adult, clawing my way through this world like an unwanted pest. Comfort is a luxury for people who haven’t destroyed everything they touch.

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” I say, my voice low but sharp. She doesn’t stir, so I lean closer, clapping my hands inches from her face. The sound ricochets off the walls like a gunshot. Her eyelid twitches, and I smirk. “Oh, good. You’re still alive. For a second, I thought the universe might’ve finally done me a favor.”

Kelly’s eye flutters open, her gaze unfocused but aware. She blinks slowly, as if trying to orient herself, and then fixes her good eye on me. There’s no mistaking the recognition—or the dread. Good.

“Did you have a nice nap?” I coo, flopping into the chair at her bedside unceremoniously. “You looked so peaceful. Almost... happy. And we can’t have that, can we?”

Her fingers twitch slightly, the only defiance her broken body can muster. It’s pathetic, really. A year ago, this woman held all the power. She was the gatekeeper of my sanity, the puppet master pulling my strings. Now? She’s nothing more than a breathing husk, completely at my mercy.

I lean forward, resting my chin on my hand. “You know, I’ve been thinking. I’m not very good at this whole ‘caregiving’ thing, am I? It’s just not in my nature. But you... you were supposed to be good at it, weren’t you? A therapist. A mother.” I tilt my head, watching her eye dart around the room like a trapped animal. “How’s that working out for you?”

Her breathing quickens, a shallow, uneven rhythm that tells me she’s panicking. Good. Let her feel it. Let her drown in it.

“You know what else I was thinking?” I say, standing abruptly and pacing the room. “You have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. Supposed to check your progress, make sure you’re healing properly, all that jazz.” I stop at the foot of her bed, grinning down at her. “But here’s the thing—I canceled it.”

Her eye widens, the closest thing to a reaction she can give, and I revel in the flicker of fear.

“Why, you ask?” I continue, my tone mockingly sweet. “Because I thought, why should you get to feel better? Why should you get to recover while I’m stuck here, dealing with the wreckage you left behind?” I gesture wildly to the room, to the life I’ve taken over, my voice rising with every word. “You ruined me, Kelly. You abandoned me. You let me rot while you played therapist and pretended to care. And now you think you’re entitled to... what? A second chance? Redemption?”

I laugh, a bitter, hollow sound that fills the silence. “No. You don’t get that. What you get is me. All night. Catching up. Isn’t that what mothers and daughters are supposed to do?”

Her eye glistens, a tear escaping down her scarred cheek, and it fuels my fury. I grab a tissue from the bedside table and dab at her face roughly, my movements more cruel than kind. “Oh, don’t cry,” I mock. “You should be grateful. I’m giving you something I never had—a chance to bond with your child.”

I toss the tissue aside and sit back down, crossing my legs. “So, where should we start? Childhood trauma? Abandonment issues? Or maybe we can skip the therapy session and dive straight into the good stuff. Like why you left. Hmm? Why you walked away from me and Sophie and never looked back.”

Her eye blinks rapidly, her only means of communication, and it enrages me further. “Blink once for yes, twice for no,” I snap. “Did you ever regret it? Leaving us?”

She blinks once, slow and deliberate, and it feels like a punch to the gut. I wasn’t expecting honesty, even in its most basic form.

“Wow,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “I don’t even know if I believe you. But hey, let’s roll with it. Did you regret it before or after Sophie died? Blink once for before, twice for after.”

She doesn’t blink, and I slam my hand down on the bedside table, making her flinch. “Answer me!” I shout, my voice cracking with rage.

Her eye fills with tears again, and she blinks once. Before.

I laugh, a manic, unhinged sound that echoes in the small room. “Of course. Regret’s a lot easier when you don’t have to face the consequences, isn’t it? When you can just pack up your guilt and shove it into the back of your mind, like the rest of us never existed.”

She blinks rapidly, a silent plea, and I wave her off. “Save it. You don’t get to play the victim here. Not after everything you’ve done.”

I stand, my hands shaking with adrenaline, and start pacing again. “You know what the worst part is? I spent twenty years trying to be good enough for you. Trying to prove that I wasn’t just some throwaway kid, that I mattered. And you... you just sat there, week after week, letting me pour my heart out to you, pretending to care.” I turn to her, my voice low and venomous. “Was it fun? Watching me unravel? Did it make you feel powerful?”

Her breathing hitches, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. Good. Let her squirm.

“You’re going to stay up with me tonight,” I say, my tone shifting to something almost playful. “We’re going to talk, and you’re going to listen. Really listen. For once in your miserable life, you’re going to hear me.”

I sit down in the chair near her bed and cross my arms. “Let’s start with the basics, shall we? Why did you leave? And don’t give me that ‘it was complicated’ crap. I deserve the truth.”

She blinks slowly, and I lean in, watching her intently. “Come on, Kelly. You can do it. Blink once for ‘I’m a selfish coward,’ and twice for ‘I’m an even bigger selfish coward.’”

Her eye narrows, a faint spark of defiance, and I grin. “There she is. The woman who abandoned her kids to chase... what? Freedom? A better life? Was it worth it?”

Her eyelid flutters, an involuntary movement that I interpret as guilt, and it only fuels my rage.

“You know what I think?” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I think you’re scared. Not of me—oh no, that would be too easy. You’re scared because you know you’ve lost. You’re trapped here, in this bed, in this house, with nothing but your regrets to keep you company.”

I lean closer, my lips inches from her ear. “And I’m not going anywhere. So get comfortable, Mom. We’ve got all night.”

Her breathing quickens, and for a brief moment, I feel a flicker of something—satisfaction? Triumph? Control?

I push it aside, focusing on the task at hand. Kelly may have broken me, but I’ll be damned if I don’t return the favor.

Tonight is just the beginning.

Chapter Nine

The guest bedroom smells faintly of mothballs—so cloying it feels as if it’s trying to smother me. I wrinkle my nose and glance around the cluttered room. Kelly’s boxes are stacked haphazardly, a monument to years of avoidance and secrets. For someone who has spent decades mastering the art of deception, she isn’t great at organizing her own mess.

The sight of the chaos stirs something dark and familiar in my chest. “Nothing ever changes,” I mutter under my breath. The bitter truth of it echoes around the silent room.

The box on top is taped shut, a halfhearted attempt at keeping the skeletons inside. I pull the tape free with a satisfying rip, the sound cutting through the oppressive quiet. Inside, the contents are disappointing at first glance—yellowing papers, old receipts, junk. But as I sift through the clutter, my fingers brush something cool and metallic.

A locket.

I hold it up to the sunlight streaming through the grimy window. The gold is worn, the delicate chain tangled, but the locket itself gleams faintly. There’s a small clasp, and when I pop it open, my breath catches.

Two tiny pictures stare back at me. On the left is me, grinning awkwardly in a school photo, the forced smile not quite hiding the bruised shadows under my eyes. On the right is Sophie, her expression bright and carefree—back when she still believed in happy endings.

The sight of Sophie hits me like a punch to the gut. She’s a ghost in my life, haunting the edges of my mind but never stepping fully into view. And yet, here she is, staring back at me with that face I tried so hard to forget.

And then it strikes me.

The resemblance between Sophie and Jesika is uncanny. It’s not just the blonde hair or the delicate features; it’s something deeper, more unsettling. The way they both radiated a kind of fragile innocence that made you want to either protect them or destroy them. No wonder Dean and I chose her to represent my brand—Jesika was familiar to me because she reminded me of Sophie, even then.

I smile despite myself. “Jesika,” I murmur, the name rolling off my tongue like a guilty pleasure. My ex-husband’s new girlfriend. The mother of his future child. I can still see her body hitting the cold, green water of the Chicago River after I pushed her. The city dyed the river for St. Patrick’s Day, and the bright emerald hue had turned her golden hair into a sickly shade of lime as she sank beneath the surface.

It’s almost poetic, I think, absently putting the locket around my neck. The cool metal settles against my skin, a strange comfort.

I return to the box, digging deeper now with a sense of purpose. Beneath a pile of old clothing, I find something that makes my breath hitch—a music box.

It’s small, made of dark wood with intricate carvings of a woodland scene on the lid. My hands tremble as I open it, and the familiar, haunting melody begins to play.

The song pulls me back.

I’m eight years old, huddled in the closet with Sophie. The room is dark except for a sliver of light coming through the crack in the door. Downstairs, our father is shouting, his voice slurred and dangerous.

“Don’t make a sound,” I whisper to Sophie, my voice barely audible over the music box’s tune. She clutches it tightly, her little fingers white-knuckled around the edges.

The song becomes our lullaby, our shield against the chaos. Even as the shouting turns to crashing and the crashing to silence, we cling to that melody like it’s the only thing keeping us alive.

Back in the guest bedroom, I slam the music box shut, cutting off the tune mid-note. My chest feels tight, my breathing shallow. For a moment, I think I might pass out.

“Get a grip, Shae,” I whisper harshly, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.

When I open them, the room is the same as it was—a cluttered mess, a shrine to a past I’ve spent my life running from. But now, it feels like the walls are closing in.

I continue to dig through the box, the inside is a jumble of paper, faded Polaroids, and random odds and ends. Typical Kelly: a hoarder of sentimentality despite her penchant for abandoning anything that breathes. My hands sift through the mess until I hit something heavier—an old leather sketchpad.

I flip it open.

The first drawing is innocent enough: Sophie’s childlike scrawl of the two of us holding hands, stick figures with exaggerated smiles.

“How precious,” I murmur, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

The next pages, though, make my breath hitch. Sophie’s drawings grow darker, almost frantic. A girl—her—stands on a pier, while another figure looms behind her, arms outstretched, ready to shove.

The images repeat, variations on a theme: Sophie falling, her hair wild as she tumbles into black water. The pier above her, stark and empty.

My chest tightens, my heart pounding in my ears. The sketches feel like an accusation, a finger pointed straight at me.

I slam the sketchpad shut, the sound too loud in the silence of the room. My pulse won’t settle, though. I shove the sketchpad aside, burying it under a pile of papers as if that will erase the images burned into my mind.

My hand brushes against something sharp. I pull out a photo album, its cover sticky with age. The photos inside are a mishmash of family snapshots, the kind that should be charming but feel like a mockery.

One picture catches my eye: me, standing beside Sophie on the beach, both of us grinning at the camera. Her arm is slung around my shoulder, her smile brighter than the sun overhead.

But my face is scratched out, gouged with something sharp until only a hollow void remains where I should be.

Page after page, it’s the same. My image erased, obliterated with a vehemence that makes my stomach churn.

“Cute,” I say aloud, though my voice wavers.

The room feels heavier now, the air thick and suffocating. I need to stop, to leave the box and walk away, but something keeps me rooted in place.

Beneath the album, I find a set of cassette tapes, the kind you’d expect from a relic like Kelly. They’re labeled in her precise handwriting: Session 1, Session 2, and so on.

Curiosity wins out over dread. I grab the nearest tape player, an ancient contraption from another era, and pop in the first tape.

The static buzzes for a moment before a familiar voice fills the room.

“Tell me about the closet, Shae.”

It’s Kelly. Her voice is calm, professional. The Kelly I knew before I knew her lies.

On the tape, my younger self answers, voice trembling. “It was dark. He locked us in there whenever we were bad.”

My breath catches. I remember this session, the way my chest ached from holding back tears, the way her gaze felt like it could cut through my skull.

“And your sister?” Kelly prompts on the recording.

“She held my hand,” I whisper, the sound barely audible over the static.

My vision blurs as the tape continues, each word pulling me deeper into memories I’ve spent my life burying.

A faint click echoes around the room, and then another session seems to start. But this time another voice interrupts. A voice I haven’t heard in years.

“What do you want me to do, Kelly?”

It’s him. My father.

I freeze, the air sucked from my lungs.

“We have to figure this out together,” Kelly responds, her voice tight. “For her sake.”

The tape clicks off, leaving me in silence so heavy it feels like it might crush me.

I can’t breathe.

The implication hits me like a freight train. They were in contact. Kelly and my father, the man who terrorized us, worked together. The therapist and the monster, conspiring behind my back while I spilled my guts to her, thinking she was my salvation.

My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat. The room feels smaller, the walls pressing in.

I shove the tape away, my hands trembling. My vision tunnels, and I feel like I might pass out. But then, something else catches my eye.

A teddy bear, its fur worn and matted.

I know this bear. It was Sophie’s.

I grab it, my fingers curling around the soft fabric. The scent hits me immediately—faint, but unmistakable. It smells like Sophie, like the flowery soap she always used.

Something in me shatters.

The room tilts, the walls warping and bending as if they’re alive. The bear feels like it’s burning in my hands, but I can’t let go.

The music box’s melody plays in my mind, the haunting tune looping endlessly. My breath comes in shallow gasps, my chest tight.

I’m eight years old again, clutching Sophie’s hand in the closet while the world outside crumbles. I’m standing on the pier, the water below dark and endless. I’m sitting in Kelly’s office, pouring out my soul to a woman who was never on my side.

The weight of it all crushes me, and I sink to the floor, the bear still clutched in my hands.

“Get a grip,” I whisper, but my voice is weak, trembling.

The room spins, the artifacts around me blurring into a kaleidoscope of memories and betrayal.

I don’t know how long I sit there, the bear pressed to my chest like a lifeline. Eventually, the spinning stops, the walls settling back into place.

I force myself to my feet, my legs shaky. The locket feels heavy around my neck, a constant reminder of the ghosts I can’t escape.

I leave the box open, the contents spilling out like a wound left to fester.

But I can’t go back.

Not yet.

My fingers brush against the locket around my neck, and I can’t help but feel a strange sense of satisfaction. Kelly kept this—kept pieces of us—even as she walked away without a backward glance.

The irony isn’t lost on me. She abandoned us, left us to fend for ourselves with a monster of a father, but she couldn’t let go of the trinkets. It’s almost laughable.

“Sentimental fool,” I mutter, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind me.

As I walk down the hall, I feel the weight of the locket against my chest. I head to the kitchen, needing the sharp bite of coffee to ground me.

The kettle whistles, the sound piercing and relentless, and for a moment, I imagine throwing it across the room just to silence it. Instead, I pour the water over the instant coffee granules and take a sip, the bitterness burning my tongue.

I glance out the window at the ocean in the distance, the waves crashing against the shore with a kind of violence that feels oddly comforting.

“Peaceful, isn’t it?”

I whip around, the voice startling me, thinking I’ve misheard–Kelly can’t speak because of the damage I did to her tongue…or can she? It’s Kelly, sitting in her wheelchair in the corner of the living room, her disfigured face half-hidden in the shadows. Her single undamaged eye, though, is sharp and unrelenting.

I laugh, the sound bitter and hollow. “Peaceful? That’s a funny choice of words coming from you.”

She doesn’t respond, of course. She can’t. But I imagine she would have some snarky retort if she could.

I walk over to her, holding the coffee cup like a weapon. “You know, I found your little treasure trove. The locket, the music box. Very touching.”

Her eyes flicker, the only sign that she’s listening.

“Tell me, Kelly,” I continue, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Did you keep those things out of guilt? Or was it just your way of holding onto some twisted sense of control?”

Her gaze doesn’t waver, and it infuriates me.

“You don’t get to sit there and act like the victim,” I snap, leaning closer. “Not after everything you’ve done. You abandoned us. You left us with him. And for what? Your own selfish freedom?”

She blinks slowly, her expression unreadable.

I laugh again, shaking my head. “You’re pathetic, you know that? Pathetic and weak. But don’t worry, I’m here to make sure you pay for every single mistake you’ve ever made.”

The locket feels like a reminder of the sister I lost and the childhood I was robbed of. I take a step back, my hands shaking slightly as I take another sip of coffee.

The room feels suffocating, the memories too much to bear. I set the cup down and head for the door, needing the fresh air to clear my head.

As I step outside, the salty breeze hits me, and I take a deep breath, the tension in my chest easing slightly. I glance back at the house, the shadows in the windows watching me like silent judges.

“I’ll be back,” I murmur, more to myself than to Kelly.

I clutch the locket tightly, the metal warm against my palm.

“I’ll always come back,” I whisper, a promise and a threat.

As I walk toward the beach, the waves crash against the shore, relentless and unyielding. Just like me. The music box’s melody lingers in my mind, a siren song pulling me back into the abyss.

Chapter Ten

The sand clings to my bare feet as I step through the front door a while later. I always leave my sandals behind when I walk the beach—feeling the grit between my toes reminds me I’m still human. Or close enough, anyway.

The air inside is stale, a dampness I can never quite banish, no matter how many scented candles I light. The hallway stretches ahead, and something about it feels off. Longer, somehow. Narrower.

I stop in my tracks, blinking hard. Maybe it’s just the salt air messing with me, or the heat of the sun still clinging to my skin.

“Get a grip, Shae,” I mutter, my voice sharp against the silence.

But the hallway doesn’t listen. It feels like it’s breathing, subtly shifting with every blink. The walls seem to ripple, the edges of the frames on Kelly’s awful, generic art bending and warping as though the house itself is holding its breath.

I rub my temples and take a deep breath. Just tired. That’s all. Tired and a little unhinged, but that’s old news.

When I finally move again, my footsteps echo strangely, as if the floorboards are farther apart than they should be. Each step feels like it takes longer to land, like I’m walking through molasses.

My reflection waits in the mirror at the end of the hall, distorted by shadows. It’s almost a relief to reach it, to see myself instead of the endless void the hallway seems to want to become.

But as I get closer, the relief fades. My reflection looks wrong.

It isn’t me—not exactly. The woman in the mirror looks like me, but younger. Her hair is glossy, her skin unlined. The smirk playing on her lips is unnervingly familiar, a shadow of who I used to be before life carved its initials into me.

“Cute,” I murmur, tilting my head.

Her eyes follow mine, there’s something in them that makes my stomach twist—a flicker of movement behind her.

I spin around, my breath catching in my throat, but the hallway is empty.

When I look back at the mirror, the reflection has changed again.

Now it’s Kelly staring at me—not the skeletal husk of her I’m used to, but a younger version of her. Her hair is longer, her face radiant and full of life. She’s beautiful, and I hate her for it.

“Shae,” she says, her voice soft but sharp.

I flinch, the sound piercing me like a needle through my skull.

“Shae,” she repeats, louder this time.

I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. “You’re not real,” I hiss.

But the reflection doesn’t care.

“You ruined everything,” Kelly says, her voice rising, trembling with accusation. “You were always the problem. You were always the one who tore this family apart.”

“Shut up,” I snap, my voice shaking.

The mirror ripples, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a stone. Kelly’s image fades, replaced by something worse.

It’s me again—but not the version I know. It’s me as a child, crouched under the bed I shared with Sophie. The blankets hang low, casting shadows that feel like they’re alive.

The scene plays out like a memory, but it’s too vivid, too sharp. I can see the fear in my younger self’s wide eyes, hear Sophie’s muffled sobs as she cries somewhere in the background.

The child version of me presses her hands over her ears, rocking slightly.

I can’t look away.

The scene shifts, and suddenly I’m outside myself, watching like a spectator in a nightmare I can’t wake up from. I see Sophie on the floor, clutching a broken doll, her face streaked with tears.

My younger self peeks out from under the bed, her gaze locking on Sophie. Her lips move, but I can’t hear the words.

The shadows around Sophie deepen, and she looks up—straight at me.

Her eyes widen, and she scrambles to her feet, dropping the doll.

“Help me!” she screams, her voice echoing like a bomb going off in my head.

I stagger back, clutching my ears, but the sound doesn’t stop.

The scene shifts again, the mirror morphing into a new memory.

This time, it’s the pier. The water is dark, churning below like a living thing. Sophie stands at the edge, her back to me.

“Don’t,” I whisper, but the word feels hollow, meaningless.

She turns, her face pale, her eyes wide with fear.

“You did this,” she says, her voice breaking.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s not how it happened. That’s not⁠—”

But the memory doesn’t care about my protests.

Sophie’s body tilts backward, her arms flailing as she falls. Her scream pierces the air, and I hear the sickening splash of her body hitting the water below.

“Stop,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Please, stop.”

The mirror shimmers again, the scene dissolving into darkness.

I’m back in the hallway, my reflection staring back at me. My face is pale, my eyes hollow.

I stagger away from the mirror, my breath coming in shallow gasps. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a war drum.

The hallway feels like it’s closing in on me, the walls pressing tighter with every step.

I stumble into the living room, collapsing onto the couch. The room spins around me, the edges of my vision blurring.

“Just tired,” I whisper, clutching at the locket around my neck. “Just tired.”

But I know that’s a lie.

Chapter Eleven

The market smells like desperation masked by artisanal cheese.

I push my cart slowly, pretending to examine the organic heirloom tomatoes. My fingers ghost over their lumpy skins while my eyes scan the aisles, seeking something—someone?—to keep my mind occupied. The soft hum of overpriced air conditioning tries to soothe, but it’s as fake as the people who shop here. I should’ve gone to the discount grocery store, but even I need a treat now and then.

And then I hear her.

“Shae? Oh my god, is that you?”

The voice is syrupy sweet and a cringe crosses my face on instinct. It’s Marissa Mathers, one of Brianna’s posse. Her laugh used to echo through the high school hallways like nails on a chalkboard, especially when it was aimed at me. Back then, Marissa was a picture-perfect cheerleader—always in a pleated skirt, ponytail bouncing like a cruel metronome. And now, here she is, clutching a Louis Vuitton tote bag and wearing designer yoga pants that cost more than my rent.

I turn, plastering on a smile that barely creases my face. “Marissa! Wow, it’s been ages.”

She beams, her teeth too white and too big for her mouth. “It has been ages! You look... different.” Her eyes do a quick scan of my outfit, clearly judging the thrift-store chic.

I let the comment hang. If I respond, I might say something regrettable, and I’m trying to blend in these days.

“So, what have you been up to?” Marissa asks, tilting her head like we’re old friends catching up over coffee instead of former enemies meeting in the overpriced produce section.

“Oh, you know,” I say with a shrug, my tone deliberately casual. “This and that. Mostly caregiving these days.”

“Caregiving?” She blinks, her heavily mascaraed lashes fluttering. “That’s... unexpected.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Life takes you in weird directions.”

She nods, and for a moment, I think the conversation might end there. But of course, Marissa Mathers doesn’t know how to leave well enough alone.

“Hey, you heard about Brianna, right?” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, like we’re swapping gossip instead of discussing a dead woman. “The drowning? It’s just so tragic.”

There it is. The name. Brianna. The ghost that refuses to stay buried. My grip tightens on the cart handle, but I force my face into an expression of mild concern.

“Yeah, I heard,” I say. “Awful.”

“It’s just so weird, you know? Brianna was always such a strong swimmer. The whole thing doesn’t make sense.” Marissa leans in, her perfume—a cloying chemical mix of vanilla and something vaguely floral—assaulting my nose. “I mean, they say it was an accident, but... I don’t know.”

I shrug again, feigning indifference. Inside, my brain is buzzing like a hive of angry bees. Does she suspect something? Surely not. Brianna’s drowning was a masterpiece.

“Well, accidents happen,” I say, my voice even. “It’s sad, but that’s life.”

Marissa studies me for a moment, and I wonder if she can hear my heart pounding. Then she smiles again, wide and fake, her perfect teeth gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

“You’re right,” she says. “Anyway, it’s good to see you! We should catch up more. Actually...” She digs into her tote bag and pulls out her phone. “A few of us girls are getting together for brunch this week. You should come.”

Brunch. The word hangs in the air like a bad joke. The idea of sitting around a table with Marissa and whoever else she’s managed to drag along, sipping mimosas and pretending to care about their vapid lives, makes my stomach churn. But refusing might look suspicious. Besides, what’s a little self-inflicted torture compared to what I’ve survived?

“That sounds fun,” I lie through my teeth. “Count me in.”

“Great!” Marissa chirps, typing my number into her phone. “I’ll text you the details.”

She hugs me before I can stop her, and I freeze as her arms wrap around me. It’s brief, but in that moment, I feel like I’m being suffocated by the weight of every insult, every whispered comment, every sneer from high school.

When she pulls back, her smile falters, just for a second. “I’m... really sorry, you know. For how we treated you back then. We were just kids, but still... it wasn’t right.”

I stare at her, caught off guard. Is this some kind of trap? Does she genuinely mean it? Or is this just another performance, like everything else in her life?

“Thanks,” I say finally, my voice flat. “I appreciate that.”

Marissa nods, her expression earnest. “Okay, well, see you soon!”

And then she’s gone, her ponytail swishing as she heads for the checkout. I watch her go, my mind racing.

Sorry. She’s sorry. As if an apology could erase years of torment. As if it could bring Sophie back. As if it could change anything.

I finish my shopping in a haze, my thoughts looping back to Marissa’s words. By the time I leave the store, the sun is glaring and my cart is full, but I can barely remember what I bought.

On the drive home, I replay the conversation over and over, dissecting every word, every glance. Marissa might think she’s in control, but she doesn’t know who she’s dealing with.

Brunch with the girls? Fine. Let’s see how they like me now.

Chapter Twelve

Kelly lies in her bed, a shadow of the woman she used to be, though I suppose that’s being generous. A real woman wouldn’t have walked away from her own children, would she? I tap my fingernails on the edge of the nightstand, my jaw tight as I watch her eyelid flutter. She’s awake. Her one functional eye follows me, though she blinks sluggishly from the meds. Or maybe the truth weighs heavier than the Ativan.

“Good evening, KellyAnne,” I say, and the name tastes bitter, acrid. “Or do you prefer Kelly? Or maybe Mother Dearest? You’ve got so many names, don’t you? So many lives. It’s a wonder you remember who you’re supposed to be.”

Her eye twitches, the closest thing she can muster to a flinch. That one, tiny movement sends a thrill up my spine. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. You thought I wouldn’t dig, didn’t you? Thought I wouldn’t find the skeletons stuffed in your closet.” I lean forward, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Spoiler alert: you’re bad at hiding them.”

I grab the birth certificate from the table and wave it like a winning lottery ticket. “It was all here. KellyAnne Miller. That’s your real name, isn’t it? It’s even cute, in a tragic, small-town way. I bet you thought changing it would erase all that messy history. Kelly Fraser sounds so polished, so accomplished. But guess what? It doesn’t erase me.”

Her breathing grows faster, shallower. A mix of fear and the weight of my words. Good. Let her stew in it.

I drop the paper on the nightstand and cross my arms, staring her down. “You know, you could’ve stayed gone. Could’ve disappeared forever and left me to wonder. But no. You had to come back, didn’t you? Couldn’t help yourself. All those letters you claim you sent—what, did you think I’d read them and fall into your arms like some Hallmark reunion special?”

Her eye narrows, sharp with a defiance that’s almost laughable. I grab the notepad from her bedside and toss it onto her lap. “Go on. Explain yourself. Again. Convince me that this wasn’t all one big narcissistic experiment.”

Her fingers tremble as she fumbles for the pen, the effort almost pitiful. Almost. Then she finally manages to scribble something:

I changed my name to escape your father.

The words hit like a hammer to the gut, and for a second, the room tilts. But I recover quickly, sneering as I hold up the pad. “Oh, please. You expect me to buy that? He’s a monster, sure, but you’re no saint. You left us with him.”

She blinks once, deliberate. Yes.

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Wow. And here I thought we were bonding.” I toss the pad back at her, shaking my head. “You know what I think? I think you’re just as manipulative as I am. Maybe more. You didn’t just leave to escape him. You left to save yourself. Admit it.”

Her breathing hitches, and she blinks again. I grab the pad, eager to see her next excuse. She writes slowly, the letters shaky but legible.

I was 19. I was using. I couldn’t raise you.

The words sit heavy in my hands. For a moment, I just stare at them, my mind racing. The image of her as a scared, strung-out teenager doesn’t fit the woman I knew—the therapist who always had the answers, the mother who never was.

“So, what? You got clean, went to college, and decided to reinvent yourself?” I snarl. “You thought, ‘Hey, maybe I’ll play therapist to the daughter I abandoned. That’ll make up for it.’ Is that it?”

She blinks twice, a tiny spark of defiance. No.

“Don’t lie to me!” I slam the notepad down, the sound sharp in the still room. “You inserted yourself into my life because you couldn’t deal with your guilt. It wasn’t about me. It was never about me.”

Her fingers twitch again, reaching for the pad. I shove it back at her, my chest heaving with barely-contained fury. When she’s finished writing, I snatch it from her hands.

I wanted to know you. I thought you hated me. The letters... you never answered.

A bitter laugh escapes me. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That’s rich.” I toss the pad aside, pacing the room. “Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t get those letters? Or maybe I did, and I burned them. Either way, you don’t get to shift the blame here.”

Her eye follows me as I pace, her breathing labored. I can feel her trying to reach me, to appeal to some buried shred of humanity. But she won’t find it. Not tonight.

“And the name change,” I say, turning to face her. “That was just another way to bury the truth, wasn’t it? KellyAnne Miller doesn’t exist anymore. But Kelly Fraser? She’s got it all together. A shiny new life, a thriving practice, a daughter she pretends to care about.”

Her eye narrows again, the smallest act of defiance. I grab the notepad, thrusting it at her. “Go on. Justify it. Tell me how it was all for my benefit.”

She hesitates, her fingers trembling as she writes. The letters are sloppier now, her strength waning. When she’s done, I snatch the pad from her hands.

I was scared. I didn’t know how to face you.

I stare at the words, my grip tightening on the edges of the pad. “Scared?” I echo, my voice a low growl. “You think I wasn’t scared? Do you have any idea what he put us through? What I went through?”

Her breathing quickens, her one good eye glistening with unshed tears. I grab the birth certificate from the nightstand and hold it up.

“This? This is all I had of you,” I hiss. “A name that wasn’t even real. And now, you sit here, pretending to be some martyr. You don’t get to rewrite history, Kelly. Not with me.”

I toss the certificate onto the floor, the paper fluttering like a dying bird. Kelly’s eye locks onto mine, and for a moment, we’re both silent, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us.

“You know,” I say finally, my voice soft but sharp. “I could’ve been someone else. Someone better. But you took that from me. You and him. You destroyed me before I even had a chance.”

Her fingers twitch, reaching for the pad, but I slap it away. “No,” I snap. “You don’t get to say anything else. You’ve said enough.”

I turn away, my hands trembling with the effort to hold myself together. The ocean hums softly in the background, a cruel reminder of the peace I’ll never have.

Behind me, Kelly lets out a shaky breath, her silence more damning than any words could be.

Tonight, I’m not just her caregiver. I’m her judge, her jury, and her executioner. And I’m just getting started.

Chapter Thirteen

The ocean murmurs softly outside, its steady rhythm an insult to the chaos swirling in my head. The salt breeze wafts through the cracked window, failing to cleanse the rot in this room. No, this isn’t some serene seaside retreat. This is my kingdom, and Kelly is my prisoner. My subject. My plaything.

Her bed is an altar of misery. She lies there, slack-jawed and helpless, her once-pretty face marred with surgeries and scars, the monument to my handiwork. Her hair, sparse and stringy, clings to her scalp like a bad wig. She stirs slightly as I approach, her one good eye sluggishly tracking my movement. I see the flicker of hope—or is it fear?—when she recognizes me.

I lean in, my voice sugarcoated with mock affection. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Did we have sweet dreams, or were they nightmares? You’re probably used to those by now, right?”

Her breathing quickens. I can almost hear the gears in her brain creaking under the weight of what little functionality she has left. Her eye darts toward the clock on the nightstand, as if it matters what time it is. Days, nights, they all blur together in this little hell I’ve constructed.

“Breakfast time,” I chirp, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. “Aren’t you lucky? You’ve got me as your personal chef. And trust me, today’s menu is... unforgettable.”

Her stomach growls loudly, an almost pathetic sound. I’m sure it’s been screaming at her for days. Medications on an empty stomach will do that—burning her insides, gnawing at the lining like acid. Not that I’d know personally. I’ve always made sure to eat, even if it was stale crackers or stolen scraps.

“You already ate, remember?” I say, tilting my head like an exasperated mother. “What’s the matter? Don’t you remember, KellyAnne? God, your memory is worse than I thought. Maybe you’re not just ugly; maybe you’re losing your mind too."

A whimper escapes her lips, a muffled sound that’s both pathetic and satisfying. I take a seat next to the bed, my gloved fingers drumming on the metal tray I’ve brought with me. On it sits a plate of something truly special. A crystal bowl filled to the brim with wet cat food, the scent so overwhelming it nauseates me.

“Since you’ve been so ungrateful,” I begin, lifting the plate, “I thought I’d give you a taste of real sustenance. It’s organic. Isn’t that what everyone wants these days?”

Her eye widens, the realization dawning on her as I place the plate under her nose. Her stomach growls again, louder this time, betraying her hunger despite the off-putting offering in front of her.

“Go on,” I urge, my tone light and playful. “Take a bite. Just one. After all, you need your strength, don’t you?”

She shakes her head weakly, her lips trembling. Tears well in her one good eye, spilling over and carving a path through the grime on her cheek. It’s almost beautiful, the way despair manifests physically.

“Don’t be rude,” I snap, my tone sharp now. “Do you know how many nights I went hungry as a kid? Locked in a closet, listening to Sophie cry because our stomachs were eating themselves? This—” I shove the plate closer to her face, “—this is gourmet compared to that.”

Her gag reflex kicks in before her mouth even opens. I pinch her jaw, forcing it open, and push a spoonful of the cat food toward her lips. She struggles, a pitiful attempt to resist, but she’s too weak. I feel a sick thrill as the meat nears her lips. Her body convulses, and she vomits violently, the contents of her empty stomach splattering onto the plate and her chest.

The room fills with the acrid stench of bile and decay. Tears stream down her face, mixing with the mess on her chest. She’s shaking now, her body wracked with dry heaves as she tries to expel what little she has left in her system.

“Well, that’s just rude,” I say, standing up and backing away slightly. “I go to all this trouble, and this is how you thank me? God, you’re pathetic.”

Her eye pleads with me, desperate and broken. For a moment, I just stand there, watching her crumble. It’s intoxicating, the power I have over her. She’s mine, every shattered piece of her.

I leave her in the mess, stepping into the bathroom to retrieve a towel. Not because I care about her comfort, but because the smell is starting to annoy me. When I return, she’s still crying, her sobs weak and ragged.

“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,” I say, tossing the towel onto her chest. “Clean yourself up. Or don’t. Honestly, the smell suits you.”

She doesn’t move, her body too weak to obey even the simplest command. I roll my eyes, grabbing the towel and roughly wiping her face and chest. She winces at the contact, her tears renewed.

“There,” I say, tossing the towel onto the floor. “Good as new. Well, as good as you’re gonna get.”

I set the bowl on the floor and Toby eats it all in under a minute. I sit next to her, resting my chin on my hand as I study her. “You know,” I say conversationally, “I was thinking about giving you a little spa day. You’ve been looking... rough, to say the least. A nice bath, maybe some skincare. Then I’ll get you some real dinner. Sound good?”

Her eye flickers, a tiny glimmer of hope sparking in the depths of her despair. It’s almost cruel how easy it is to manipulate her, to dangle a carrot just out of reach.

“Great,” I say, clapping my hands together. “Let’s get started.”

I wheel her into the bathroom, the squeak of the chair’s wheels grating against the silence. The tub is already filled with lukewarm water, a mix of bubbles and something a little extra. The smell is faint enough to go unnoticed, but I know what’s coming. And I can’t wait.

I lift her into the tub, her frail body light as a feather in my arms. She lets out a small whimper as the water touches her skin, but I ignore it, lowering her fully into the bath.

“There,” I say, stepping back to admire my work. “Doesn’t that feel nice? A little self-care never hurt anyone.”

Her eye closes briefly, as if she’s trying to savor the moment. It’s almost sweet, in a twisted way. But the sweetness doesn’t last. Within minutes, she starts to squirm, her body jerking weakly against the sides of the tub.

“What’s wrong?” I ask innocently, kneeling beside her. “The water too hot? Too cold? Oh, wait—could it be the Nair?”

Her eye snaps open, wide with panic, as the realization hits that I’ve emptied a bottle of hair removal cream into the bathwater. I lean in close, my voice a whisper. “Oops. Guess I should’ve read the label.”

She thrashes weakly, her movements frantic as the Nair starts to work its magic. Her sparse hair clumps together, falling out in chunks and sticking to her hands and the edges of the tub. The water turns murky, a sickly mix of soap and her disintegrating dignity.

“Relax,” I say, smirking. “It’s just hair. You didn’t have much left anyway.”

Her silent screams echo in the bathroom, her body shaking with a combination of pain and humiliation. I sit back, crossing my arms and watching the scene unfold. It’s poetic, in a way—her losing what little she had left, piece by piece.

When it’s over, I drain the tub and wrap her in a towel, carrying her back to bed. She’s trembling, her one good eye glassy with tears and defeat. I lay her down gently, almost tenderly, as if I care.

“See?” I say, brushing a hand over her now-bald scalp. “Fresh start. New beginnings. Doesn’t that feel good?”

She doesn’t respond, her body too broken to react. I step back, my hands on my hips as I survey my work. She’s a mess—a perfect, beautiful mess.

“Get some rest,” I say, turning toward the door. “Big day tomorrow.”

I flick off the light and close the door behind me, the sound of her muffled sobs following me down the hall.

Outside, the ocean hums its eternal lullaby, indifferent to the horrors within these walls. But that’s the beauty of this place, isn’t it? Peace on the outside, chaos within. Just like me.

Chapter Fourteen

The air is heavy, the quiet suffocating. The only sound is the steady tick of the clock on the wall, mocking the passing time. Midnight, and the rest of the peaceful community sleeps silently. But not here, not in this room. I loom over her like an executioner sharpening his blade. I stand in the darkened hallway, staring at Kelly’s door. She’s been sleeping peacefully for hours. Too peacefully. It’s insulting, really.

I push the door open slowly, letting the creak of the hinges echo into her room. She doesn’t stir. Her broken body is as still as a corpse. Her chest rises and falls shallowly, her face slack in whatever half-life she now occupies. I flick the overhead light on, the sudden brightness stabbing into her darkness. Her eyelids flutter, but she doesn’t open them.

“Rise and shine, KellyAnne,” I sing-song, stepping closer to her bed. “Time for a midnight movie. You know how I love our little bonding moments.”

Her eyelids twitch again, this time dragging open. Her good eye struggles to focus, bleary and confused. Her mouth quivers, trying to form sounds that won’t come. She knows by now there’s no point. I’ve trained her well. The only words in this house are mine.

I set my phone on the dresser, angling it toward the bed. The screen lights up, and a video starts playing. The sounds are immediate—screams, crashes, a child crying, a woman pleading.

Kelly’s eye widens, the panic setting in as the scene unfolds. A courtroom recording, infamous for its brutality. A father on trial for the savage beating of his wife and son. The audio alone is enough to make the strongest stomach churn, but I’m not here to protect Kelly from discomfort.

“Remember this case?” I ask, leaning against the dresser. “They played it on the news nonstop. People were horrified. Outraged. But you know what stuck with me? How familiar it all sounded.”

Kelly’s fingers twitch weakly at her sides, her body reacting in spite of itself. She can’t look away from the screen, her one good eye pinned to the horror in front of her. I grin.

“I used to think people like that were monsters,” I continue, my tone conversational. “But then I realized, they’re just people. People who don’t hide it as well as others. Kind of like you.”

Her breath catches, a sharp hitch in her chest. She knows I’m baiting her, but what can she do about it? Nothing. That’s the beauty of this.

I cross the room and sit on the edge of her bed, my face inches from hers. “Do you think Sophie would’ve turned out like you?” I ask softly. “If she’d lived, I mean. Or would she have been like me? A little mix of both, maybe?”

Her tears start, silent but steady. I reach out and swipe a finger through the wetness on her cheek, holding it up like I’ve discovered a treasure.

“Look at that,” I murmur. “You do still feel something. Amazing.”

I let her cry for a moment before standing and walking to the closet. Inside, tucked beneath a pile of old blankets, is a cardboard box. I drag it out and place it on the bed beside her. The box is worn, the edges frayed from years of use. It smells faintly of mildew and sadness.

“You know what this is,” I say, tearing the lid off. “Your little box of memories. All the things you thought you could hold onto. Pictures, letters, mementos. It’s funny, really. You were so busy holding onto the past, you forgot the present was catching up to you.”

I pull out a photo album, the leather cover cracked with age. Flipping it open, I find the first picture—a young Kelly, smiling with an infant in her arms. Me.

“Look at you,” I say, holding the photo up for her to see. “Playing the part of the doting mother. If only people knew the truth, huh? That you were already planning your escape.”

Her eye narrows slightly, a flicker of defiance. I laugh.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” I say, tossing the album onto the floor. The pages splay out, scattering pictures across the room. “You think these things matter? They don’t. Memories are just ghosts. Shadows of things that were never as good as you think they were.”

I reach into the box again, pulling out a stack of letters. The handwriting is neat, precise. Kelly’s. I flip through them, reading snippets aloud.

“‘Dear Shae,’” I recite, my voice dripping with mock sentimentality. “‘I hope you’re doing well. I think about you and Sophie every day. I miss you both so much.’”

I crumple the letter in my fist, letting the paper fall to the floor. “Missed us so much you left us to rot,” I mutter. “Real mother of the year.”

Her breathing quickens, her chest rising and falling with effort. She wants to protest, to explain, but her body won’t let her. It’s almost pitiful. Almost.

I grab another letter, this one unopened. The postmark is from years ago, long before she reinserted herself into my life under the guise of a therapist. I tear it open and skim the contents, my eyes narrowing.

“You know what’s funny?” I say, holding the letter up. “You wrote all these words, but you never actually said anything. Just the same empty platitudes over and over. ‘I love you.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ Blah, blah, blah. Do you even know what those words mean?”

She turns her head away, her good eye staring at the wall. I grab her chin, forcing her to face me.

“Don’t look away,” I snap. “You wanted this, didn’t you? To know me? To be part of my life? Well, here I am. And here you are. So look at me.”

Her tears fall faster now, soaking into the pillow beneath her head. I let go of her chin and step back, surveying the mess I’ve made. The room is littered with photos, letters, and pieces of her past. It’s fitting, really. A life in shambles, just like her.

“I think we’re done for tonight,” I say, turning off the video on my phone. The sudden silence is deafening, the absence of screams almost worse than the sound itself.

I walk to the door, pausing to look back at her. She’s broken, defeated, her body a shell of the person she used to be. And yet, there’s something in her eye—a spark, a flicker of defiance that refuses to die.

It annoys me.

“Goodnight, KellyAnne,” I say, flicking off the light. “Sweet dreams.”

As I close the door, the darkness swallows her whole.

Chapter Fifteen

The flowers are nice. Too nice. They're an insult, really, wrapped in pink tissue paper with a cheerful little bow. The kind of thing you see in a rom-com where the girl-next-door finally gets her happy ending. Taylor stands there on the doorstep, his surfer-boy smile wide, his hand outstretched, as if he hasn’t just stepped into the lair of a woman who killed her ex’s wife not so long ago.

I take the bouquet because that’s what Sophie would do. Sophie would gush and smell the blooms, her cheeks pink with genuine joy, and maybe she’d say something sweet like, You didn’t have to, but I’m so glad you did. Me? I’m not Sophie.

But tonight, I am.

“Oh my God, Taylor,” I say, forcing a lightness into my voice that tastes foreign in my mouth. “You’re really spoiling me. First tacos, now flowers? What’s next, a pony?”

He laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that lights up a room—or so I imagine. I’m too busy keeping my Sophie mask in place to care. He steps in closer, leaning against the doorframe, and I catch a whiff of his cologne. Something woodsy and clean. Too wholesome for the swamp I call my soul.

“You deserve it,” he says simply, his eyes scanning my face like I’m some rare treasure he can’t quite believe he’s holding.

The line is sweet. Sickly sweet. It makes my stomach churn, but I keep the smile plastered on my face. Sophie would blush right about now, maybe tilt her head coyly. So I do, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear for good measure.

“I’ll just put these in water,” I say, turning toward the kitchen before he can notice the cracks in my performance.

The vase I pull from the cabinet is cracked, too. A jagged line running down the side like the life I’ve tried to cobble together. I fill it halfway, jamming the flowers in like they’re weeds, and set it on the counter. From the other room, I hear Taylor making small talk with Toby. Toby growls softly but lets Taylor scratch his ears. Traitor.

When I come back, Taylor is crouched on the floor, one hand still on Toby’s head, the other holding the bouquet’s plastic wrap I’d left discarded. He straightens when he sees me, smiling like nothing in the world could be wrong.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

I grab my coat and the Sophie smile. “Always.”

The movie is some generic rom-com. The kind Sophie would have loved. Two impossibly attractive people bicker their way through predictable misunderstandings, only to fall madly in love during the third act. The theater smells like popcorn and bad decisions. Couples sit huddled together, sharing whispered jokes and candy. Taylor leans close, his shoulder brushing mine, and offers me a handful of peanut M&M’s.

“Thanks,” I whisper, taking a few, even though the sweetness makes my teeth ache. I hate candy, but Sophie would accept them.

The actors on the screen kiss for the first time, and the audience lets out a collective sigh, as if they’ve all been waiting for this moment to validate their own hopes and dreams. I feel Taylor watching me out of the corner of his eye, probably waiting for me to sigh, too, or smile, or swoon. Instead, I stare straight ahead, the scene blurring into nothingness as my mind takes me somewhere else entirely.

To Sophie.

She would have been happy here, sitting in this theater with a boy who liked her, eating candy, and letting herself believe in a world where love conquers all. She wouldn’t have spent the whole time analyzing every move, every word, every breath, trying to figure out if it was real or just another lie.

A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it, hot and heavy with things I’ll never say. I swipe at it quickly, pretending it’s nothing, but Taylor notices. Of course, he notices.

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice soft and concerned. “You okay?”

I nod, forcing a shaky laugh. “Yeah, sorry. It’s just...the movie. You know how these things get to me.”

He smiles, and it’s so understanding, so kind, that it makes me hate him a little. How can anyone be this good? This genuine? Doesn’t he know the world isn’t like this? That people like me exist? That I exist?

He takes my hand, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles, and I let him. I let him because Sophie would, because Sophie deserved this kind of care, even if it’s wasted on me.

The movie ends with a predictable happy ending, the couple kissing in the rain as triumphant music swells. The lights come up, and people start filing out, chatting about how cute or funny it was. Taylor stands, offering me a hand. I take it, my fingers cold and stiff against his warmth.

As we walk out of the theater, he talks about the film, how it reminded him of his favorite rom-com from years ago. I nod and smile in the right places, but my mind is far away, back in the darkness where I belong.

Back at the condo, the air feels heavier, thicker. Taylor lingers on the porch, his hands in his pockets, his boy-next-door charm practically radiating off him. He leans in close, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. My heart stutters, a mix of anticipation and dread.

But he doesn’t. “I had a great time tonight,” he says, his voice low. “I’d like to see you again.”

The Sophie in me nods eagerly, smiling like she’s won the lottery. The Shae in me wants to scream, to tell him to run before he gets caught in the web I’m spinning.

“I’d like that,” I say instead, my voice softer than I expect. “Text me?”

He grins, that same heart-melting smile that should make me feel something good. But all I feel is hollow. As he walks away, I close the door and lean against it, letting out a shaky breath.

My mind races. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I mutter. “I really don’t.”

Chapter Sixteen

The first thing I notice when I open the door to Kelly’s room after my date with Taylor is the bite of the cold air. I almost forgot. Almost. I left the thermostat cranked down to arctic levels before my date, and the chill creeping through the condo now feels like a living thing, crawling over my skin and sneaking under my clothes.

Perfect.

I shut the door softly behind me, listening. The place is quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner struggling against the California heat. I half expect to hear muffled sobs coming from Kelly’s room, but there’s nothing. Silent suffering is so much sweeter anyway.

When I step into her room, the sight stops me dead in my tracks. Toby, my so-called loyal dog, is curled up on the bed next to Kelly, his stout little body pressed against her for warmth. His gray fur rises and falls with each sleepy breath, utterly content. Betrayal has never looked so cozy.

“Traitor,” I hiss.

Toby lifts his head, his ears twitching. His big, dumb eyes blink at me like he doesn’t understand why I’m angry. I stride across the room, yanking him off the bed by his collar. He lets out a startled yelp, but I don’t care. He’s mine—he doesn’t get to choose sides.

“You,” I snap, pointing at Kelly as if she can defend herself, “you think you can win him over? Pathetic. You can’t even feed yourself.”

Kelly’s one good eye shifts toward me, sluggish and watery, but she doesn’t move otherwise. She doesn’t even flinch. I hate how resilient she’s gotten in her silence, how she can stare at me like she’s not breaking inside.

I look at Toby, who’s cowering now at my feet. “And you,” I mutter, “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

I shove him out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoes through the condo, rattling me more than I want to admit. I lean against the door for a moment, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. When I open them again, Kelly is watching me, her gaze heavy.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I say, stalking toward the bed. “You brought this on yourself.”

I grab the wheelchair and yank it closer, the legs scraping against the hardwood floor with an awful screech. Kelly’s fingers twitch faintly, like she’s trying to protest, but it’s useless. She doesn’t get a say in what happens next.

“You look cold, Mom,” I say, my voice dripping with mock concern. “Let’s warm you up, shall we?”

The closet smells like stale air and desperation. It’s the kind of small, dark space that feels alive with memories—the bad kind. I wheel Kelly inside, positioning her in the center like a grotesque mannequin. Her head lolls to the side, but her good eye stays fixed on me, wide and glassy.

“You should feel at home here,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “It’s not so different from where Sophie and I spent our days when you left us.”

Her lip trembles faintly, and for a split second, I think she might cry. Good. Tears make everything better.

I grab the small security camera from my pocket and hold it up, letting her see the tiny lens before I attach it to the wall. “Smile for the camera,” I say, grinning. “I’ll be watching. Always.”

I step back, surveying my work. The camera’s red light blinks ominously, a quiet reminder that she has no privacy. No freedom. No escape.

“Two days,” I tell her, crossing my arms. “That’s how long you’re staying in here. Maybe longer if I’m feeling generous. And don’t think about trying anything clever while I’m gone. I’ll know.”

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just stares at me with one dead, accusing green orb. I resist the urge to slap her, to force some kind of reaction, but it’s not worth the effort. Not yet.

“Sweet dreams, Mom,” I say, shutting the door. The darkness swallows her whole as the smallest hint of a smile crosses my lips.

Back in the living room, Toby is lying on the couch, his chin resting on his paws. He looks up when I walk in, his eyes full of guilt or confusion or maybe both. I drop onto the couch beside him, letting my head fall back against the cushions.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” I say, scratching behind his ears. “But I’m willing to forgive you this time. Don’t let it happen again.”

He licks my hand, a slobbery apology that I begrudgingly accept. I grab my phone on the coffee table, scrolling through my contacts until I find the number I’m looking for.

The maintenance guy answers on the second ring, his voice groggy. “Yeah?”

“Hi, this is Kelly Fraser,” I say, slipping into my practiced polite tone. “I need to schedule some work on my condo. I think there might be some pest issues.”

There’s a pause, then a gruff, “Pest issues?”

“Yes,” I say, forcing a smile into my voice. “I think I saw a rat in the kitchen.”

“Okay. We can be there day after tomorrow in the afternoon, does that work?”

“Afternoon is fine. Thanks.”

I hang up and immediately text Taylor.

Me: Hey! Bad news. Exterminator found some pests at my place. Looks like Toby and I will need to crash somewhere for a few days...

His response is almost immediate.

Taylor: Oh no! Come stay at the family cottage. It’s in the mountains—super peaceful. Toby will love it.

I stare at the message, my heart thudding unevenly. The family cottage. It sounds quaint, picturesque, like something out of one of those stupid rom-coms he loves so much. But more than that, it sounds like an escape. A place where I can breathe without the reminder of Kelly’s suffocating presence.

Me: Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.

Taylor: Of course. Pack a bag. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.

I set the phone down, my mind buzzing with possibilities. This could be good. This could be really good.

But first, I have a few loose ends to tie up.

The afternoon light is absurdly bright as I make my way next door, the bouquet of flowers from Taylor clutched in one hand and a tin of loose-leaf tea in the other. It’s sickening, really, how picturesque this neighborhood is. All pastel condos and pristine lawns, like a postcard sent by someone with a sentimental streak and no imagination. It’s the perfect place for an old woman like Mrs. Hathaway to live out her final years, surrounded by the illusion of peace.

And me? The dutiful neighbor, bringing a housewarming gift. If she only knew.

Toby lumbers along beside me, his tongue lolling out like he’s auditioning for a greeting card. “Try to behave yourself,” I mutter, though his presence here is calculated. If Mrs. Hathaway is going to be a good little ally—or at least blissfully unaware—I need her to be on board with everything about me. Even the dog.

The door swings open before I can knock, and there she is, all warmth and wrinkles.

“Hello!” Her voice is saccharine and fragile, like spun sugar on the verge of collapse.

“Hi! I’m Kelly–” I catch myself before revealing my real name, “your neighbor next door. I thought I’d stop by and say hello properly.” I hold up the flowers and tea like a peace offering.

“Oh, how sweet of you. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Virginia Hathaway.” She takes the bundle of flowers. “You’re such a sweet girl! Come in, come in. And who’s this handsome fellow?” She gestures to Toby, who responds by wagging his entire rear end like a freight train.

“This is Toby. He might look intimidating, but he’s really just a big baby,” I say with a practiced smile. “I wanted to introduce him so you wouldn’t be startled if you hear him barking. He’s just a little vocal sometimes.”

Mrs. Hathaway waves a dismissive hand.

“Oh, I’m hard of hearing these days, dear. I take my hearing aids out at night, and I sleep like the dead.” She chuckles, and I can’t help but think how true that statement might become if I play my cards right.

I help her prepare the tea, then we make our way to her backyard garden, which is somehow both charming and overgrown, like something out of a fairy tale. She pours the tea I brought into two dainty china cups, her hands trembling just enough to remind me how fragile she is. The scent of lavender wafts from the cup as she hands it to me. “What a lovely tea. Where did you find it?”

“Oh, just a little specialty shop up the coast,” I say, suppressing a smirk as I pretend to sip. Specialty, indeed. The tranquilizer I ground into the leaves should hit her system soon enough. Just a little insurance policy, nothing too dramatic. It’s important to keep the neighborhood quiet while I’m away with Taylor.

We settle into her mismatched chairs, Toby flopping down on the grass with a grunt. Mrs. Hathaway smiles at him like he’s the most delightful creature she’s ever seen. “So tell me what brought you to the neighborhood.”

“Oh–my job. I’m a caregiver.” I smile sweetly.

“Oh how nice. I guess if I ever need help you’re the woman to call. Whoever you’re taking care of now is so lucky,” she says, her tone dripping with sincerity. “You seem like such a natural at it. It’s a rare gift, you know, to have such compassion.”

I force myself to meet her gaze, to look appropriately touched. “Thank you, Mrs. Hathaway. That means a lot. It’s not always easy, but it’s worth it. My patient’s been through so much. She had a sudden stroke last month–the physical therapy really takes it out of her. She may never walk again.”

“Oh, dear,” she says, shaking her head. “But to have you there for her… she must feel so blessed.”

Blessed. Right. That’s one way to describe it.

We chat for a while longer, the conversation meandering through her children—who live far away, naturally—and the various ailments of her aging body. I make all the right noises, nodding and sympathizing, even as my mind wanders. It’s almost too easy. People like Mrs. Hathaway are desperate for connection, so eager to believe in the goodness of others.

When her eyelids start to droop, I know the tea is doing its job. She pats my hand as I rise to leave, her grip surprisingly firm for someone so frail. “You’re a treasure. Truly. If you ever need anything, you just let me know.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hathaway. That means a lot,” I say, slipping into the practiced warmth of my caregiver persona. “And if Toby barks, just ignore him, okay? He’s harmless.”

“Oh, I will, dear. I don’t hear much anymore anyway.”

Perfect.

I leave her sitting in her garden, the tranquilizer working its magic. As I walk back to my own house, Toby trotting faithfully beside me, I feel a strange sense of satisfaction. It’s always hard to leave home, but knowing Mrs. Hathaway is taken care of makes it easier. She won’t hear a thing while I’m gone with Taylor for the weekend, not even if Kelly decides to get vocal.

Mrs. Hathaway? She’ll sleep like the dead.

Chapter Seventeen

The next morning, the condo feels eerily quiet as I get ready. Kelly is still locked in the closet, and the faint hum of the A/C is the only sound that breaks the silence. I pack a small bag, throwing in just enough clothes for a few days. Toby watches me from the corner, his tail wagging lazily.

“You better behave yourself while you’re away this weekend,” I tell him, zipping up the bag. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you after I found you snuggling with the enemy.”

He barks softly, and I roll my eyes. Traitor.

Before I leave, I check the camera feed on my phone. The image of Kelly locked in the dark closet fills the screen, her head slumped forward. She hasn’t moved much since last night, but that’s to be expected. She knows better than to waste energy.

“Don’t miss me too much,” I whisper, turning off the screen.

Taylor arrives right on time, his Army green Jeep gleaming in the morning sunlight. He hops out and helps me load my bag into the back, his smile as bright as ever.

“Ready for a little getaway?” he asks, his voice warm and inviting.

“Absolutely,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat, Toby settled in the backseat behind us. “Let’s go.”

As we drive away, I glance back at the condo one last time. It looks so small, so unassuming, nestled among the other condos in the quiet neighborhood. No one would ever guess the horrors hidden inside.

And that’s exactly the way I like it.

A few hours later we arrive at a small lake in the Los Padres National Forest. The lake looks like a postcard. Still and serene, it stretches into the horizon, reflecting the sprawling pines and the whisper of a distant mountain range. Taylor’s family cottage sits at the edge of the water, a charming little thing with weathered wood siding and a stone chimney that curls with smoke. It feels untouched by the chaos of the world. A far cry from Kelly’s sterile condo and its suffocating walls.

I step out of Taylor’s Jeep, letting the crisp mountain air hit me. It's colder than I expected, but it’s a sharp, clean kind of cold that wakes me up. Toby leaps from the backseat, his nails scraping against the gravel driveway as he bounds toward the dock like he owns the place.

“This is… perfect,” I say, letting my voice carry that Sophie sweetness Taylor seems to love. I turn to him, brushing a strand of hair out of my face, and he’s grinning at me like I’m the perfect thing in this picture.

“It’s my favorite place,” he says, shutting the door and grabbing our bags. “We used to come here every summer when I was a kid. My dad taught me to fish right over there.” He nods toward the dock, where Toby is sniffing at something with feral determination.

The image of Taylor as a freckle-faced kid fishing with his dad stirs something in me. It’s foreign and uncomfortable, but I push it away. Sophie would love it. She’d swoon over the nostalgia, maybe tease him about his baiting skills. And I’m Sophie this weekend. I have to be.

“I can’t wait to see everything,” I say, clasping my hands together. “It’s so beautiful here.”

“It is,” he says, his eyes lingering on me like I’m part of the view.

A few hours later we set out for our first hike. Taylor picked a trail that loops around the lake, winding through towering pines and patches of wildflowers. He’s carrying a small backpack with snacks and water, and he’s wearing that plaid shirt that makes him look like a lumberjack straight out of some romance novel.

I play the part perfectly, gasping at the views, laughing at his jokes, brushing his hand with mine every so often like it’s an accident. It’s not. It’s never an accident.

We stop at a rocky overlook halfway through, and Taylor pulls out a thermos of coffee. He pours two cups, handing one to me, and we sit side by side, staring out at the water below. The water is so clear it looks like glass, reflecting the surrounding trees and sky as though it’s trying too hard to impress.

“This is nice, huh?” he says, stretching his arms over his head.

“Yeah,” I manage, trying to match his carefree tone. It’s a pathetic attempt, like a dog playing fetch without understanding the rules.

I stand awkwardly at the edge of the lake, staring at the ripples forming from a stray breeze. It reminds me too much of another body of water, years ago. My stomach tightens, and I feel the weight of Taylor’s eyes on me.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer. “You okay?”

I let out a laugh—sharp and hollow. “Yeah, just… thinking.”

“You’ve been quiet today,” he presses. “Not that I mind, but it feels like there’s something on your mind.”

Of course there is, I think bitterly. There always is. The trick is to filter the chaos into something digestible. Something human.

“I guess… I’ve been thinking about my sister,” I say, my voice quieter than I expect. It feels like dragging words through mud.

Taylor’s face softens, his curiosity tempered with caution. “You never talk about her.”

I nod, eyes fixed on the lake. “She died when she was thirteen. Sophie. It was an accident. She drowned.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and sharp like shattered glass. Taylor doesn’t rush to fill the silence, which makes it both easier and harder to keep talking.

“After that,” I continue, “life wasn’t the same. My dad…” I pause, swallowing against the lump forming in my throat. It’s a practiced pause, calibrated to appear just emotional enough. “He couldn’t handle it. He just… fell apart. Drowned himself in vodka instead of… well, you know.”

Taylor nods, his expression solemn. “That must’ve been so hard for you.”

Hard isn’t the word, but I don’t correct him. “I had to keep everything together,” I say instead. “Pay the bills, keep the fridge stocked, make sure he didn’t drink himself into oblivion. All while trying to keep up with school. It wasn’t exactly the idyllic teenage experience.”

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I let them fall, slowly, delicately. Taylor shifts closer, his hand hovering near mine before finally settling on top of it. His touch is warm, grounding. Too grounding.

“What about your mom?” he asks gently.

“She left,” I say, my tone clipped. The tears are real now, hot and stinging. “When I was a kid. I didn’t see her again until recently. That’s why… it’s been so fulfilling, you know? Taking care of her now. Reconnecting. It’s like I’ve finally gotten back a piece of what I lost.”

The lie slips out so smoothly I almost believe it myself.

Taylor’s hand tightens over mine. He pulls me into a hug, his arm wrapping around my shoulders. His chin rests on the top of my head as he murmurs, “You’ve been through so much. It’s time someone took care of you for a change.”

The sincerity in his voice is unbearable. I let out a shaky breath and pull back just enough to look at him.

“Someone like who?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Someone like me,” he says, wiping a tear from my cheek with his thumb. His eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, I think he might actually mean it.

He leans in and kisses me softly, his lips warm and gentle against mine. It’s the kind of kiss I imagine normal people would find comforting. But for me, it’s like a foreign object pressing against my skin, uninvited and unwelcome. I resist the shudder threatening to ripple through my body, forcing myself to lean into it instead.

When he pulls back, his arms wrap around me in another hug. I let him hold me, my face buried against his chest, and force myself to match his steady breathing.

Inside, though, my thoughts churn like a storm. Triumph swells in my chest—I’ve got him. Hook, line, and sinker. He’s exactly where I need him to be. But beneath that triumph, something darker stirs. Discomfort. Intimacy, his kind of intimacy, feels suffocating. Like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.

Taylor pulls away slightly, his hands still on my shoulders, his gaze searching mine. “You don’t have to carry everything alone anymore,” he says softly. “Not while I’m here.”

I nod, giving him a small, grateful smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes people think they’ve won, that they’ve broken through the cracks in my armor.

But they never do.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice steady now. “I mean it.”

Taylor smiles, satisfied. He doesn’t notice the tightness in my jaw, the way my fingers dig into my palms when he isn’t looking. He doesn’t see the storm behind my eyes.

He doesn’t know that love isn’t a safety net for people like me. It’s a weapon. And I’m always the one holding the blade.

A comfortable silence hangs between us for a while and then Taylor shifts topic.

“You ever think about how people snap?” he muses, interrupting my thoughts.

My grip on the coffee cup tightens. “Snap?”

“Yeah.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I mean, most people carry these enormous burdens. Trauma, regret, guilt… stuff that would crush anyone. But they keep going, day after day, pretending they’re fine.”

“Pretending,” I echo, forcing a smile. “Yeah, I guess a lot of people do that.”

He looks at me, his eyes sharp and searching, like he’s trying to see past my smile. It’s unnerving. I sip my coffee to avoid his gaze.

“Some people are so good at it,” he continues, his voice dropping, “that no one even realizes they’re on the edge. Until one day, something small happens, and they just… snap.”

A chill runs down my spine, and it has nothing to do with the cold. “You’ve seen that?”

“All the time,” he says, leaning back and looking at the lake again. “It was part of my job in the department. Psychiatric evaluations. I’d talk to people who’d done unspeakable things, and sometimes, it was like flipping a switch. They were fine one minute, and the next, they weren’t.”

I swallow hard, feeling like I’m walking a tightrope. “That must’ve been... intense.”

“It was.” He glances at me, his expression softening. “But it also taught me how strong people can be. How much they can carry without breaking. Honestly…I think we're all mentally ill. Some of us just hide it better than others,” he chuckles.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. He has no idea how close I am to breaking right now. How much of this conversation feels like a spotlight on my secrets.

Back at the cottage, we cook dinner together. Taylor insists on doing most of the work, but I help where I can, chopping vegetables and sneaking bites of cheese when he’s not looking.

“You’re not subtle,” he says, catching me mid-bite.

I laugh, holding up the chunk of cheese like a trophy. “What can I say? I’m a thief at heart.”

“Noted,” he says, grinning as he stirs something on the stove. “I’ll keep an eye on the dessert.”

The kitchen fills with the smell of garlic and herbs, and for a moment, it feels like a scene from a life I’ll never have. A normal life. A good life.

After dinner, we sit by the fire overlooking the lake. The flames crackle softly, and the warmth wraps around me like a blanket. Toby is curled up at my feet, snoring softly, and Taylor is sitting close enough that I can feel the heat of him.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice low.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I was just thinking… this is nice.”

“It is,” he agrees, reaching for my hand. His fingers are warm and steady, and I let him lace them with mine.

For a while, we sit in comfortable silence, watching the fire and listening to the lake. It’s peaceful in a way that makes my chest ache. I don’t deserve this. I know I don’t. But for now, I’ll let myself pretend.

When Taylor turns to me, his eyes are soft, and there’s a question in them. I don’t answer with words. I lean in, closing the space between us, and our lips meet in a kiss that’s slow and tender and so unlike anything I’m used to.

He pulls me closer, his hand resting on my cheek, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself feel. It’s terrifying and exhilarating, like standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down.

When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine, and he smiles. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

I laugh softly, hiding my face against his shoulder. “You’re biased.”

“Maybe,” he says, pressing another kiss to my temple. “But I’m okay with that.”

Later, when we’re tangled together under the sheets, his breath warm against my neck, I feel something I haven’t felt in years. Loved. Cherished. It’s a dangerous feeling, one that threatens to unravel everything I’ve built. He’s a perfect gentleman and doesn’t even try to make a move. He doesn’t do anything more than hold me, but maybe after everything that’s all I need.

As Taylor drifts off to sleep, his arm draped over my waist, I stare at the ceiling, my mind racing. This can’t last. It’s too fragile, too good. And I’m not Sophie. I’m not the girl he thinks I am.

But for now, I’ll let him believe. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll believe it too.

Chapter Eighteen

The morning sun streaks through the forest, scattering golden light over the deck as I sit with my coffee. It’s too early for most people to be awake, but Taylor left for his run an hour ago, all boundless energy and optimism. I watch the steam curl off my mug, savoring the quiet as Toby naps at my feet. Silence is underrated, I think, until it’s gone. Or until it becomes deafening.

I swipe open my phone and pull up the Nest app, scrolling through the cameras I’ve strategically placed throughout the condo. Kelly, dear old Mother, is safely tucked away in her frozen little purgatory. Last night’s thermostat manipulation left her shivering so hard I thought she might rattle out of the wheelchair. The sight of her frail form, bundled in that cocoon of misery, brought a smug satisfaction that I haven’t felt in years.

But today, I decide to change the game. I tap the app and slide the thermostat to its maximum setting. Ninety degrees. Sweat lodge, anyone?

The app confirms the adjustment with a cheery beep, and I smile into my coffee. There’s something about managing Kelly’s environment from a distance that feels like playing god. Omnipotent. Omnipresent. I lean back in my chair, letting the weight of my control sink in.

When Taylor returns, flushed and glowing from his run, I’ve already cleaned up the evidence of my small power trip. The app is tucked safely back into my phone, and I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch, flipping through an old photo album he found on a shelf. It’s full of grainy Polaroids from his childhood—campfires, fishing trips, and awkward family portraits where his ears stick out just a little too much.

“Enjoying the family history?” he asks, toweling off his face and neck.

I glance up with my best Sophie smile. Sweet, curious, harmless. “It’s adorable. You were such a cute kid.”

He laughs, dropping onto the couch beside me. “Yeah, well, I had my awkward phase.”

I flip to a picture of him holding a fish almost as big as he was. “You call this awkward?”

“Pure luck,” he says, grinning. “I was terrible at fishing. My dad did most of the work.”

I lean into him, letting the photo album rest on my lap. “Your family seems so... normal.”

“Normal’s overrated,” he says, draping an arm around my shoulders. “But yeah, I guess we were lucky.”

Lucky. The word lands like a stone in my gut. I force another smile and close the album. “It’s nice. I can see why you love it here.”

We spend the rest of the morning lounging around the cottage, sipping coffee and planning our day. Taylor suggests another hike, but I convince him to stay close to the lake.

“I’m still sore from yesterday,” I lie, stretching dramatically.

He agrees, because of course he does. Taylor is easy like that—accommodating, kind, the perfect foil to my chaos. He’s everything I’m not, which is probably why I can’t stop orbiting around him. Like a moth to a flame, knowing full well I’ll get burned.

Around lunchtime, I get the notification I’ve been waiting for.

“Pismo Beach Fumigation Services has arrived at your property.”

The words flash across my screen, and I feel a rush of satisfaction. One more item crossed off my ever-growing to-do list. I open the message, scrolling through the details. The crew will spend most of the day sealing and fumigating the condo, ensuring every last pest is eradicated.

Good riddance.

Taylor notices my distraction and raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, just house stuff,” I say breezily, tucking my phone away. “The exterminator’s fumigating today.”

“Nice,” he says, nodding. “What kind of pests are you dealing with?”

I hesitate, caught off guard by the question. “Oh, you know... just mice. Maybe some rats. They said they heard scratching in the walls.”

His face twists in mild disgust. “Yikes. Hope they get it all.”

“They will,” I assure him. “And if they don’t, they’re giving me a second round at half price.”

“Efficient,” he says, smiling. “Where’s your mom while all this is happening?”

I pause, forcing myself to think fast. “Oh, she’s with her sister in Catalina for the weekend. Living the dream.”

Taylor seems satisfied with the answer, and I silently thank the universe for throwing me a lifeline. Kelly in Catalina. What a laugh. The reality is she’s probably sweltering in the closet, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. The image brings a flicker of satisfaction, quickly followed by guilt. But I squash it down. Guilt is for people with something to lose.

Later that evening, we’re sitting by the lake again, watching the sunset bleed orange and pink across the sky. Taylor grills burgers while I sip a glass of wine, pretending to care about his stories from the police department.

“It’s wild,” he says, flipping a burger with practiced ease. “The things people do under pressure. You’d be amazed at how quickly someone’s personality can change when they’re backed into a corner.”

I nod, swirling the wine in my glass. “Sounds like you’ve seen it all.”

“Pretty much,” he says, shrugging. “But I try not to judge. Everyone has their breaking point.”

Breaking point. The words hang in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, I wonder if he sees through me. If he knows I’m not Sophie, not sweet, not normal. But then he smiles, setting a plate in front of me, and the moment passes.

Later, we clean up the kitchen together, moving in sync like a couple who’s been doing this for years. It’s disturbingly domestic, and I can feel my walls starting to crack. Taylor doesn’t notice, too busy humming some old rock song as he washes dishes.

When we’re done, he pulls me into his arms, swaying slightly to the tune in his head.

“Dance with me,” he says, his voice low and warm.

I hesitate, caught off guard by the intimacy of the moment. But then I let him guide me, our movements slow and unsteady, like we’re learning each other’s rhythms for the first time.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispers, his breath tickling my ear.

“Me too,” I say, and for once, it’s not a lie.

The next morning, I wake up before Taylor and slip out onto the deck with my coffee. The lake is calm, the air crisp, and for a moment, I feel a strange sense of peace.

I pull out my phone, checking the Nest app. The thermostat is still set to ninety, and I can’t help but smirk. Poor Kelly. She must be miserable.

A new notification catches my eye. “Fumigation complete. Final report available.” I tap the message, scrolling through the notes.

The crew heard scratching in the walls—likely rats or mice, as suspected. The fumigation should kill them, but a second round might be necessary. The thought of those little pests scrambling for survival, only to meet their end in a cloud of poison, brings a dark satisfaction.

I close the app, feeling a strange sense of accomplishment. Everything is falling into place.

Taylor joins me a few minutes later, wrapping his arms around my waist as we watch the sun rise over the lake. For a moment, I let myself lean into him, savoring the warmth of his embrace.

But in the back of my mind, I know it’s only a matter of time before the facade crumbles. Before Sophie disappears, and all that’s left is me.

Chapter Nineteen

Istep into the condo, the smell of chemicals still faintly lingering in the air. The lights are dim, casting long shadows across the walls. Perfect. Shadows have a way of amplifying paranoia, turning harmless corners into lurking monsters. I close the door quietly, locking it behind me with a soft click, and pause to listen.

Kelly’s labored breathing greets me before I even see her. A jagged wheeze, like a rusted gate creaking open. I smile. The fumigation did its job, though not in the way the exterminators intended. They were ridding the house of pests, but the real infestation is right where I left her.

“Kelly,” I call out, my voice dripping with faux concern. “I’m home.”

I smirk, thinking that I’ve only been Kelly’s caregiver for a little over a week and yet something about this place already feels like home. Like I was always meant to be here.

No response. Not that I expected one. I make my way down the hall, taking my time, the heels of my boots clicking against the hardwood. With every step, I let my presence echo through the house like a death knell. She needs to know I’m here. That her tormentor has returned.

When I reach her room, I stop in the doorway. Kelly is exactly where I left her—propped up in her wheelchair in the closet, blankets tangled around her frail body. She looks smaller, as if the fumigation sucked the life out of her along with the supposed pests. Her eye darts to me, wide and glassy, a feral glint of panic shimmering just beneath the surface.

“Good evening,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “How was your weekend?”

Her gaze shifts, trying to focus, but her body betrays her. A weak tremor runs through her hands. She’s dehydrated, disoriented, and deliciously helpless. I saunter over to the side of the bed, kicking the chair nearer to her. The sound grates against the floor, and Kelly flinches.

“Relax,” I say, settling into the chair and crossing my legs. “It’s just me. No need to be dramatic.”

Her lips part slightly, but no sound comes out. Not that it matters. Her silence is part of the charm.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “You look... rough. Did you have a bad dream? Or maybe...” I pause, tilting my head. “Maybe it was the fumigation. That stuff can really mess with your head.”

Her eye narrows slightly, a flicker of defiance. Good. She’s still got some fight in her. It makes breaking her down so much more satisfying.

“Oh, come on, don’t look at me like that,” I say, reaching out to adjust the blanket around her shoulders. “I told you about the fumigation before I left. Don’t you remember?”

Her gaze sharpens, confusion mingling with suspicion. She’s trying to piece it together, trying to claw her way out of the fog that’s settled over her brain. I sit back, letting the weight of my words sink in.

“I even left your phone in the pocket of your wheelchair,” I continue, my tone light, almost cheerful. “You could’ve called for help anytime. But you didn’t. Why is that, Kelly? Were you too busy enjoying the peace and quiet?”

A strangled sound escapes her throat, halfway between a gasp and a whimper when I pull the phone from the wheelchair pocket. Her hands twitch again, clutching at the blanket like it’s the only thing tethering her to reality. I lean closer, my voice dropping to a whisper.

“The house doesn’t feel safe anymore, does it?” I ask, my breath hot against her ear. “It’s like it’s turning against you. Like it’s alive, watching you, waiting for you to make a mistake.”

She stiffens, her gaze darting around the room as if the shadows are about to leap out and swallow her whole. I smile, satisfied. Paranoia is such a beautiful thing. It feeds on itself, spiraling out of control until you don’t know what’s real and what’s imagined.

“Honestly, Kelly,” I say, standing up and pacing the room. “I’m worried about you. Your memory’s slipping, your nerves are shot... It’s almost like...” I trail off, feigning thoughtfulness. “Early dementia.”

Her eye snaps back to me, wide with fear. The accusation hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating.

“It happens, you know,” I continue, turning to face her. “Especially after trauma. The brain can only take so much before it starts to deteriorate. Maybe that’s what’s happening to you.”

I watch as the words take root, her breathing growing more erratic. She’s trying to fight it, trying to convince herself that I’m lying, but the seed has already been planted. Doubt is a powerful weapon, and I wield it with precision.

“I mean, think about it,” I say, sitting back down. “You couldn’t even remember the fumigation. Or the phone. Who knows what else you’ve forgotten? Maybe...” I pause, letting the suspense build. “Maybe you’re losing your mind.”

Her head shakes weakly, a feeble attempt to deny the inevitable. I reach out and place a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “Don’t worry,” I say, my tone dripping with mock sympathy. “I’ll take care of you. Even if you can’t take care of yourself.”

The uncertainty in her gaze is intoxicating. She doesn’t know what’s real anymore, and that’s exactly where I want her. The unpredictable threats, the constant state of anxiety—it’s a delicate balance, but one I’ve mastered. The uncertainty of when or if something bad will happen is often more terrifying than the threat itself.

I stand, smoothing out the wrinkles in my dress. “Well, it’s getting late,” I say, glancing at the clock. “You should get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”

Her gaze follows me as I move toward the door, her eye pleading for something—mercy, understanding, a shred of humanity. But I have none to give. Not to her.

I stop in the doorway, turning back to face her. “Oh, and Kelly?” I say, my voice soft but laced with menace. “I’m watching at all times. Even when you think you’re alone.”

Her eye widens, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air. I smile one last time before closing the door behind me, leaving her alone with her thoughts. And the shadows. And the scratching in the walls that may or may not be real.

Later that night, I lie in my bed, scrolling through the Nest app again. The camera in Kelly’s room shows her tossing and turning, her frail body writhing under the covers. She’s trying to sleep, but the paranoia won’t let her. Every creak, every whisper of wind outside the window is another nail in her coffin.

I switch to the thermostat controls, lowering the temperature just a few degrees. Not enough to freeze her out, but enough to keep her uncomfortable. It’s a subtle reminder of who’s in control.

Satisfied, I set my phone down and close my eyes. Sleep comes easily, the sound of Kelly’s suffering echoing in my mind like a lullaby.

Chapter Twenty

The ocean breeze dances lightly as I step into the sunny chaos of the café. It’s the kind of place that screams, we take ourselves way too seriously. Exposed brick walls, mismatched chairs that probably cost a fortune to look this cheap, and little chalkboard menus with names like “Avo-Luxury Toast” and “Farmhouse Daydream Latte.” It’s the perfect venue for Marissa Mathers and her tribe of Stepford-lite clones to gather and pretend their lives are picture-perfect.

“Shae! Over here!” Marissa’s voice is a little too bright, her smile a little too eager. She waves me over to the table with a flourish, like she’s the queen of brunchland, and I’m her honored guest.

I paste on a wide, fake smile to match hers and glide toward the table. Inside, my nerves are coiled so tight they hum. Outside, I’m the image of calm. I slide into the chair they’ve saved for me, noting with dark amusement that it’s strategically placed in the middle of their little circle. Trapped, flanked on both sides. The queen and her court.

“Shae, you look amazing,” Marissa gushes, her eyes doing a quick scan of my sundress. I can practically hear her judgment. “Doesn’t she, girls?”

There’s a chorus of overly enthusiastic agreement. “So chic,” one of them says. “You’re glowing!” chimes another.

I want to laugh. Glowing? The closest I’ve come to glowing is the faint shimmer of rage I get when I think about these women and their high school games. But I smile and nod, playing the part. Let them think I’m glowing. Let them think I care.

“So, Shae,” Marissa begins, leaning in slightly, her tone syrupy sweet, “what have you been up to? It’s been forever!”

Forever. It’s been long enough for me to become someone unrecognizable, Marissa. But I keep the snark to myself and give her the answer she wants to hear.

“Oh, you know,” I say, swirling my coffee with a tiny spoon. “Life’s been... busy. I’ve been caregiving mostly. It’s rewarding but challenging.”

Their heads nod in unison, like bobbleheads on a dashboard. “That’s so noble,” one of them says, her voice oozing condescension.

“Who are you taking care of?” asks another, her tone as casual as if she were asking what I had for breakfast.

“My mother,” I answer without thinking. “She’s been unwell.”

“Oh, that’s so sad,” Marissa says, her hand fluttering to her chest in mock concern. “You’re such a good daughter, Shae. My mom is crazy, I don’t think I could do it–caregiving is such a selfless act.”

I smile thinly, wondering if she’d think I was a good daughter if she knew what “caregiving” really meant. If she knew what my mother looked like now, strapped to her hospital bed, helpless and silent. I sip my coffee, letting the bitterness linger on my tongue.

“So,” Marissa says, seamlessly shifting gears, “have you been keeping in touch with anyone from school? Brianna’s accident was just... awful, wasn’t it?”

The name hits me like a slap, and I have to remind myself to breathe. I nod slowly, my grip tightening on the coffee cup. “Yes,” I say, my voice calm despite the storm inside me. “Awful.”

“I still can’t believe it,” says one of the other women, shaking her head. “She was always such a strong swimmer.”

“Right?” Marissa agrees, her eyes wide. “It’s just so tragic. I mean, I wasn’t close to her in the last few years, but still...the reports didn’t mention anything about foul play but there’s something about it that just seems off.”

The words swirl around me, meaningless chatter that makes my blood boil. Tragic. Awful. Strong swimmer. They talk about Brianna like she was some kind of saint, like they didn’t all play their part in the web of lies and cruelty that defined our high school years.

I sip my coffee to keep from saying something I’ll regret. But my inner monologue is relentless. You’re all hypocrites, I think, watching them through narrowed eyes. You sit here in your pearls and Chanel, pretending your lives are perfect, but you’re just as broken as the rest of us. You just hide it better.

They keep talking, their voices blending into a sickly sweet symphony of gossip and platitudes. I nod and smile in all the right places, but inside, I’m seething.

“Do you remember that time in gym class?” one of them asks, laughing. “When Brianna totally wiped out during the relay race? She was so embarrassed!”

The table erupts in laughter, and I grip my cup so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. My mind flashes to Brianna’s face that day—red with humiliation, her eyes darting around to see who was laughing at her. And then another memory surfaces, unbidden: Brianna’s face in the water, pale and lifeless.

I set my cup down carefully, afraid I might throw it across the room if I hold onto it any longer. “Excuse me,” I say, my voice tight. “I need to use the restroom.”

Marissa looks up, concern flickering across her face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “Be right back.”

I walk away from the table, my steps measured and deliberate. In the restroom, I lean against the sink, staring at my reflection. My face is calm, composed, but my eyes betray the chaos inside me.

Why did I agree to this? I wonder. Why did I let Marissa rope me into this circus?

I take a deep breath, splashing cold water on my face. When I return to the table, they’re talking about weddings and vacations, their voices light and carefree. I slide back into my seat, determined to get through the rest of this brunch without losing my cool.

But then Marissa turns to me, her smile warm and inviting. “Shae, you should come to our book club next week. It’s at my house, and we’d love to have you.”

Book club. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do less. But I force a smile and nod. “That sounds great,” I lie.

The conversation continues, but I’ve had enough. My patience is wearing thin, and the urge to say something cutting and cruel is becoming harder to resist.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “You know,” I say, my tone light but laced with sarcasm, “it’s so nice to see how everyone’s lives have turned out. All this talk about vacations and weddings and book clubs... it’s just so inspiring.”

They laugh, oblivious to the venom in my words. Marissa tilts her head, her smile faltering just slightly. “We’d love to hear more about your life, Shae.”

I smile back, my teeth clenched. “Oh, my life isn’t nearly as interesting as yours. I mean, caregiving doesn’t leave much time for... brunch.”

They laugh again, and I push my chair back, the sound scraping against the floor. “Well, this has been lovely, but I should get going. Things to do, you know.”

Marissa looks concerned. “Are you sure? We were just about to order mimosas.”

“I’m sure,” I say, grabbing my bag. “Thanks for the invitation. Really.”

As I walk away from the table, I can feel their eyes on me, their whispers following me out of the café. Outside, the sun is blinding, the air heavy with the smell of salt and sunscreen. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside me.

Things to do, I think, my mind already drifting to the hospital bed waiting for me at home. Wrongs to right. Justice to deliver.

And as I walk to my car, a small, satisfied smile creeps across my face. Let them have their brunches and their book clubs. I have more important things to do.

Chapter Twenty-One

The spare room is a time capsule. It smells of stale air and forgotten regrets. Boxes stacked to the ceiling, each labeled with a word or two that means nothing to me: Keepsakes, Photos, College. It’s all just junk. The remnants of Kelly’s perfect life, carefully preserved, while mine was left to rot.

I shove one of the boxes to the floor and rip off the lid. Inside, a layer of neatly folded bath towels protects what I’m sure is another heap of meaningless crap. I pull back the towels, and the first thing I see is another locket, tarnished, delicate and older looking than the last, as if it hasn’t seen daylight in decades. It flips open easily, revealing two faded photos—Kelly as a girl, and a woman I assume is her mother. Both smiling. Both blissfully unaware that one day, they’d raise daughters doomed to hate them.

“Oh, this is rich,” I mutter, tossing the locket onto the bed. “A family tradition of dysfunction.”

Underneath the locket is a stack of journals, each one bound in cheap leather with the years scribbled on the covers. I grab the oldest one, dated the year Kelly turned sixteen, and sit cross-legged on the floor. The room is dim, the single overhead bulb casting long shadows across the boxes. It feels like the right atmosphere for uncovering ghosts.

The first page is a diary entry, scrawled in rushed, teenage handwriting.

May 3, 1985

He hit her again. I told her to leave, but she just shook her head and said, “It’s not that simple.” What’s not simple about packing a bag and walking out the door? I hate him. I hate that she won’t fight back. I hate that I’m too small to make him stop. Sometimes, I think about running away, but I can’t leave her. She’s all I have.

I stop reading, my chest tightening. The anger in those words feels familiar, almost comforting. It’s the same anger I carried for years, aimed at the father who treated Sophie and me like unwanted pets, barely worthy of scraps or kindness. Kelly knew that rage long before I did. She lived it.

But does that excuse her? I flip to the next entry, looking for more answers.

June 10, 1985

He came home drunk again. She burned the roast, and he called her stupid and threw the plate against the wall. I picked up the pieces while she cried in the bathroom. I told her we should leave, but she just stared at me like I’d said something impossible. “Where would we go?” she asked. Anywhere, I wanted to scream. Anywhere but here.

The pages blur as I read on, the entries becoming darker, more desperate. Kelly’s life was a carbon copy of mine—a cycle of fear and helplessness, punctuated by fleeting moments of hope that were always crushed underfoot. She didn’t just abandon me and Sophie. She abandoned herself long before we were even born.

“Poor little Kelly,” I whisper, the words dripping with mock pity. “Trapped in her own tragedy.”

But the sarcasm feels hollow. I toss the journal aside and grab another, the leather cracked and worn from years of handling. This one picks up a few years later, after Kelly had left home. The tone is different—less angry, more detached. Like she was trying to convince herself that running away had fixed everything.

March 15, 1989

I found a room to rent near campus. It’s tiny, and the radiator only works half the time, but it’s mine. I started therapy last week. The doctor says it’s normal to feel guilty, but I don’t know. How do you forgive yourself for leaving someone behind?

My fingers tighten around the edges of the journal. Therapy. Of course. The great Kelly Fraser, always trying to fix herself, even as she left destruction in her wake.

“You forgave yourself plenty,” I mutter, flipping to another page. “It’s the rest of us you forgot.”

May 22, 1991

I met someone. His name is Robert, and he’s... kind. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t hit. He listens. He says he wants to build a life together, but I don’t know if I can trust it. Every time he touches me, I flinch. I don’t think I know how to love without being afraid.

Robert. My father. The man who destroyed what little remained of her. Did she flinch when he touched her because of her past—or because she already knew what he was capable of? The thought makes my stomach churn, and I slam the journal shut.

I sit there for a moment, staring at the pile of boxes, the weight of what I’ve read settling over me like a heavy blanket. Kelly’s life wasn’t a clean escape. It was a series of compromises and mistakes, each one dragging her further from the person she wanted to be. And somehow, I was the final compromise. The one she couldn’t handle.

“Was it worth it?” I ask aloud, my voice echoing in the empty room. “Did running away make it better, or did it just make you weak?”

The silence is deafening.

I return to Kelly’s room, the journals still clutched in my hands. She’s lying in bed, her frail body barely a lump under the blankets. The strobe light has stopped, but the aftereffects linger. Her eye half-closed, her breathing shallow. She looks like a ghost.

“Did you think leaving would save you?” I ask, my voice low and sharp. “Did you think it would save us?”

Her gaze flutters open, but she doesn’t respond. She can’t, and that infuriates me. I want her to fight back, to give me something to push against. Instead, she just lies there, a pathetic shell of the woman who once held so much power over me.

I drop the journals onto her lap, the weight of them making her flinch. “These tell a pretty little story, don’t they? Poor Kelly, the victim. Poor Kelly, the survivor. But where’s the part where you abandoned your kids? Where’s the part where you let him destroy us?”

Her eye fills with tears, but I don’t let up. I grab the top journal and hold it up, shaking it for emphasis. “You left because you were scared. You left because you were weak. And then you spent the next twenty years pretending it never happened.”

She closes her eye, a tear sliding down her cheek. It’s the closest thing to an admission I’m going to get, and it feels hollow. Empty.

“You don’t get to be the victim here,” I say, my voice trembling with anger. “You don’t get to hide behind your excuses. You broke the cycle for yourself, but you left me and Sophie to rot in it. And now you’re going to sit here and face what you’ve done.”

I turn and leave the room, slamming the door behind me. My chest heaves with every breath, the rage burning inside me like a wildfire. But beneath it, there’s something else.

I spend the rest of the night pacing the house, my mind a whirlwind of anger and confusion. Kelly’s journals have opened a wound I didn’t know I had, and I don’t know how to close it.

I stop in the kitchen, staring out the window at the darkened street. The quiet neighborhood feels oppressive, like the world has shrunk down to this house and the ghosts it holds. I want to leave, to run away like Kelly did, but I can’t. Not yet.

Because as much as I hate her, as much as I want to destroy her, I can’t ignore the truth. Kelly wasn’t just a coward. She was a victim, trapped in a cycle she didn’t know how to break. And in some twisted way, that makes us the same.

The thought makes me sick.

I grab a bottle of wine from the counter and pour myself a glass, the liquid sloshing over the edge. I don’t bother cleaning it up. I just sit there, staring into the glass, trying to make sense of the mess Kelly has left behind.

For the first time in years, I feel something other than rage. It’s faint, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. A flicker of understanding. Of pity.

But I push it down, burying it under the weight of everything she’s done. Because if I let it in, if I let myself feel sorry for her, I lose. And I can’t afford to lose.

Not now. Not ever.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The delivery guy leaves a brown paper bag at the front door, accompanied by a small envelope with my name on it. It’s late, and the porch light buzzes faintly in the otherwise silent night. My first thought is that someone made a mistake.

I carry the bag inside, the weight of it warming my hands. Toby sniffs eagerly at my feet, his tail wagging in anticipation, his traitorous heart always ready to love the bringer of food.

I settle the bag on the kitchen counter, ripping open the envelope first.

Kelly,

Just thought you might need a pick-me-up. Hope you like Thai food. Thinking of you.

- Taylor

The simplicity of it punches me in the gut. It’s not flowers or jewelry or some grand gesture that reeks of obligation. It’s thoughtful. Genuine. The kind of thing someone does when they actually care about you.

I stare at the note, my throat tightening. It’s infuriating, this feeling of being seen, of being cared for. It’s a spotlight on all the empty places inside me, and I don’t know whether to bask in it or hide.

I crumple the note and toss it onto the counter, focusing on the bag instead. The smell of spices and coconut wafts up as I pull out the containers: pad thai, green curry, spring rolls. Enough food for two people, maybe three.

“Generous,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Too bad it’s wasted on me.”

I set the food out on the dining table, arranging it neatly even though it’s just for me. Kelly’s room is dark down the hall, but I can feel her presence like a weight on my back. She knows I’m here. She knows I’m eating. And she knows she won’t get a bite.

I sit down and pile a plate high, Toby at my feet. He watches me with those wide, pleading eyes, the kind that make you feel like a monster for saying no. I toss him a spring roll, and he catches it mid-air, chomping happily.

“Traitor,” I mutter, but my tone is soft. He doesn’t care who I am, what I’ve done. He just wants to be close. It’s almost enough to make me forget who his real owner is—or was. I think of Isaac bleeding out on the basement floor, his fingers severed. I wonder if he made it. I imagine I’d hear about it if he did–but then, maybe not.

I take a bite of the curry, and the flavors explode on my tongue. It’s good. Really good. Better than I deserve, probably. The thought sours the food in my mouth, and I force it down with a gulp of water.

My gaze drifts to the picture on the side table. Sophie and me, arms wrapped around each other, smiles so wide they look painted on. It’s a lie, of course. Even then, we were already broken, already clawing our way through a childhood that didn’t want us.

I pick up the frame, tracing Sophie’s face with my finger. She was so good. Too good. The kind of person who could find beauty in a world that chewed her up and spat her out. And I—well, I was me. The angry one. The survivor. The one who always had to clean up the mess, even when it wasn’t mine.

“Maybe I should’ve gone instead of you,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Maybe that would’ve been fair.”

Toby whines at my feet, nudging my leg with his nose. I drop my hand to his head, scratching absently behind his ears. His warmth is comforting, grounding. But it’s not enough to stop the tears that spill over, hot and unwelcome.

I don’t know how long I sit there, crying into my half-eaten dinner, but by the time I pull myself together, the food is cold and Toby is curled up at my feet, asleep. I push the plate away, the smell suddenly nauseating.

The hallway is dark as I make my way to Kelly’s room, the floorboards creaking under my bare feet. I open the door slowly, the soft hum of her machines filling the silence. She’s lying there, eye closed, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

For a moment, I just watch her. Her face is pale, gaunt, the scars from the surgeries twisting her features into something almost unrecognizable. She looks small. Helpless. And for a brief, fleeting second, I feel something like pity.

“Maybe I’ve been too hard on you,” I say softly, though I know she can’t respond. “Maybe if I want a future with Taylor, I should try to be... better.”

The words taste foreign, unnatural. Better. What does that even mean? Sophie was better. She was good, and it got her nothing but a grave. What’s the point in pretending I can be like her?

I sigh and lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “You know, Taylor sent me food tonight. Nice guy, huh? Thoughtful. Kind. Everything I’m not.”

Her eyelids flutter, just barely, and for a moment I think she’s awake. But then she stills again, her body sinking deeper into the bed.

I take a step closer, my voice lowering. “He doesn’t know who I really am. What I’ve done. What I’m capable of. And he can’t ever find out. Because if he does...”

I trail off, the weight of the thought pressing down on me. If he knew the truth, he’d run. They always do. No one stays when they see the monster behind the mask.

“Goodnight, Kelly,” I whisper, turning to leave. “Sweet dreams.”

Back in the living room, I sink onto the couch, pulling Toby into my lap. He resists at first, but eventually settles, his head resting against my chest. The picture of Sophie and me is still on the table, and I pick it up again, staring at it like it holds some kind of answer.

I think about Isaac. About the way he used me, discarded me like I was nothing. About the nights I spent crying over him, wondering what I’d done wrong. And then I think about Sophie, about the way she tried to comfort me, even when she was hurting just as much.

“Do you think he’d like me better if I was more like you?” I ask the photo, my voice barely a whisper. “Do you think anyone would?”

The tears come again, and this time I don’t fight them. I let them fall, soaking into Toby’s fur as he nuzzles against me. I cry for Sophie, for the life she never got to live. I cry for myself, for the person I’ll never be. And I cry for Taylor, for the moment he inevitably realizes that I’m not worth saving.

When the tears finally stop, I’m exhausted, my body heavy and numb. I curl up on the couch, pulling Toby close, and let sleep take me.

The next time I open my eyes, morning light streams through the windows, stabbing through my eyelids. Toby is still curled up next to me, his tail wagging as I stir. I scratch behind his ears, offering him a small smile.

“Good morning, traitor,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Sleep well?”

He licks my hand in response, and I can’t help but laugh. It’s a small, fleeting sound, but it feels good. Almost human.

I stretch and sit up, the picture of Sophie and me still on the table. I pick it up, holding it close as I take a deep breath. Today, I decide, I’ll try to be better. For her. For Taylor. For myself.

But as I set the photo back down, a familiar bitterness creeps in. Better. What does that even mean? How do you fix something that’s been broken for so long?

I don’t have an answer. But as I get up and start the day, I tell myself I’ll try. Even if it’s just for today, I’ll try.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The cemetery is still, a pocket of serenity that feels almost obscene. The sun, too cheerful for my liking, spills golden light over the gravestones and the manicured grass. The faint sound of waves crashing against the rocks in the distance carries on the breeze, a reminder that the ocean is never far from Sophie. Fitting, really. The water took her life, and now it serenades her eternal rest.

I find her grave easily. Third row, far corner, the one with the modest headstone carved with her name: Sophie Miller. No cheesy epitaph, no flowery tribute. Just the name, dates, and the cruel finality of a dash in between. That dash does all the heavy lifting, doesn’t it? It’s the weight of a life too short, too bright, too perfect—too much of everything I wasn’t.

I lower myself onto the grass beside her grave, crossing my legs and plucking at the daisies I brought. They’re pathetic things, flimsy and wilting in the summer heat, but they’ll do. Sophie wouldn’t care about daisies, or flowers at all, really. She cared about fairness, about kindness, about every nauseating thing that made her better than me.

I tug at the first petal and watch it float lazily to the ground. She loves me. The next one goes too. She loves me not.What a load of crap. The daisies don’t know a thing about love, and neither do I. I strip them bare anyway, one by one, until the grave is littered with tiny white corpses. A fitting metaphor.

“Sophie,” I say aloud, my voice low and casual, as if we’re having coffee instead of me talking to a slab of stone. “You know, this spot is nice. I can admit that much. I guess you would’ve liked being so close to the water.”

I trace my fingers over the rough edge of the headstone, the tactile reality grounding me. “It’s funny, isn’t it? You always loved the ocean, and in the end, it was what got you. Poetic, really. Or cruel, depending on how you look at it.”

The memories come unbidden, like an undertow pulling me back. The nights locked in the closet while Dad screamed at some woman downstairs. Sophie, just a kid, squeezing my hand in the dark, telling me it was going to be okay. The mornings we went to school hungry because Dad forgot to buy groceries again. Sophie sneaking crackers from her lunch tray into her pocket for me because she knew I hated asking for help. The way she smiled, like the world wasn’t a place designed to chew us up and spit us out.

I pluck another petal, but this one sticks to my thumb, clinging stubbornly. Figures.

“Do you think there’s a heaven, Soph?” I ask, my voice quiet. “Do you think you’re up there, floating around in some perfect cloud, playing a harp or whatever nonsense they talk about?”

I snort at the thought. Sophie would’ve been the type to believe in heaven. She was too good, too pure to think otherwise. But me? I don’t get to entertain such naive fantasies. Heaven is a club I’ll never be invited to, and that’s fine by me. I’ve got my own plans.

“Do you think they let people like me in?” I ask, smirking at the absurdity of the question. “You know, if I make the world a better place by getting rid of the bad ones? Do you think that earns me a pass at the pearly gates?”

I laugh at my own joke, the sound dry and hollow. The idea of me in heaven is a farce. I’d burn up on entry like a vampire walking into sunlight.

The sound of gravel crunching underfoot pulls me from my thoughts. I glance up to see an old woman shuffling along the path, her hunched frame moving with the slow determination of someone who’s been alive too long. She’s wearing a cardigan despite the heat, and her cane taps rhythmically against the ground as she approaches.

I brace myself, already anticipating the small talk. Old people have a knack for inserting themselves into situations where they aren’t wanted, like uninvited guests at a party.

She stops a few feet away, her kind eyes crinkling as she smiles at me. “You look so peaceful, dear,” she says, her voice warm and raspy. “It’s rare to see someone so content at a cemetery.”

I force a soft, mournful smile, the kind that earns sympathy without inviting further conversation. “It’s my sister,” I say, gesturing to the grave. “She passed in a freak accident as a teenager. I come here every Sunday to talk to her.”

Her face softens, and she nods, her hand tightening on her cane. “That’s a beautiful thing, dear. To keep her memory alive like that.”

I nod, letting my face fall into what I hope looks like thoughtful grief. “She was everything to me,” I say, my voice heavy with emotion. “The best of us, really.”

The old woman pats my shoulder lightly, a gesture that’s more irritating than comforting. “It’s clear how much you loved her,” she says. “She’s lucky to have a sister like you.”

I smile again, biting back the urge to tell her she has no idea what she’s talking about. Lucky? Sophie wasn’t lucky. If she had been, she wouldn’t be rotting six feet under while I’m here, carrying the weight of both our lives.

The old woman looks out at the ocean, her expression wistful. “You know,” she says, “grief fades. But love? Love stays. It’s what keeps us going.”

I nod mechanically, offering a murmured “Thank you,” though her words grate on my nerves. I don’t need a Hallmark card speech about love and grief. I need her to walk away so I can be alone with my thoughts.

She finally takes the hint, her cane tapping against the ground as she shuffles away. I watch her go, half tempted to stick my foot out and trip her just to see what would happen. But I resist. Barely.

When she’s out of sight, I turn back to the grave, my fingers brushing over the headstone once more. “She has no idea, does she, Soph?” I say, my voice low and bitter. “None of them do.”

I drop the naked daisies on the grave, their stripped stems a fitting symbol of the life Sophie never got to live. The resentment bubbles up inside me, hot and sharp, as I stand and brush the grass off my dress.

“You’re lucky,” I whisper, my voice thick with anger. “You get to rest. You get to be at peace. And me? I’m still here, cleaning up the mess.”

I turn on my heel and walk away, the weight of the past pressing heavily on my shoulders. The cemetery fades behind me, the sound of waves crashing against the rocks growing fainter with each step.

An oppressive stillness clings to me, like the feeling of walking through a dream. Or a nightmare. The daisies I left on Sophie's grave are already wilting, their stripped petals curling in the faint ocean breeze. It feels fitting somehow—everything that touches this family eventually decays.

My heels crunch against the gravel path as I head toward the exit. The cemetery is empty, the quiet presses against my ears like static. I try not to look back at the headstone. I never do. What would be the point? Sophie’s not there. She’s in the water. Or maybe in the clouds. Or maybe she’s nowhere.

I let out a bitter laugh. “Heaven,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head. “As if that’s where any of us are headed.”

My shoes scuff to a halt as I round the corner toward the gates.

That’s when I see her.

At first, it doesn’t register—just a figure standing at the edge of the path, partially obscured by the shadow of a weeping willow. She’s looking down at a grave, her hand brushing hair out of her face, her posture strangely familiar.

Too familiar.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. My heart starts pounding, too fast, like it’s trying to rip itself out of my chest. Because I know that posture. I know that face.

It’s Sophie.

But it can’t be. It can’t be.

My legs feel rooted to the ground, my mind spinning as if someone’s yanked the floor out from under me. I try to tell myself I’m imagining it. The soft morning light playing tricks on me. The ocean mist distorting my vision. But no—she steps forward, and the sun catches her hair. Light blonde like Sophie’s. Her profile is sharp, her chin tilted up with that same stubbornness that used to drive me insane.

Then she turns slightly, and my stomach flips.

It’s not just Sophie. It’s also Jesika.

The world tilts, a sickening kaleidoscope of faces and memories that I can’t separate. Jesika’s blonde hair streaked green from the river dye. Sophie’s wide, tear-filled eyes the night she fell. The sound of the splash. The suffocating silence that followed.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my nails digging into my palms. You’re losing it, Shae. This isn’t real. None of this is real.

When I open them again, she’s still there.

And now she’s looking at me.

My body goes cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones, freezes you in place. She tilts her head, her lips curling into the faintest hint of a smile. It’s not warm. It’s knowing. And it sends a chill skittering down my spine.

“Sophie?” The word slips out before I can stop it, barely a whisper, like it’s been dragged out of me. My throat feels raw, my voice unfamiliar.

She doesn’t answer. Just stands there, watching me. And that smile—it’s all wrong.

I stumble backward, my pulse roaring in my ears. The rational part of me knows I should leave. Run. Get in the car and drive until this whole scene is a distant blur in my rearview mirror. But I can’t move. My feet feel stuck, the ground beneath me shifting like quicksand.

When I blink again, she’s gone.

The path is empty, the shadows swallowing her whole. But the weight of her gaze lingers, pressing against my back as I force myself to turn and leave.

And as I drive away, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just seen a ghost—or worse, something alive.

Tension coils in my chest like a spring. Sophie may have found her peace, but mine is still out there, waiting to be claimed. And I’ll find it, no matter what it takes. But right now I have things to do, people to answer for, justice to deliver.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The morning air carries that crisp, ocean tang that feels so smug in its serenity. It mocks me, really, as if the universe has decided to stage its picturesque irony just outside the walls of this hellhole. I sip my coffee on the balcony, watching joggers who are too happy for their own good pound the pavement with their overly whitened smiles. Life goes on for the rest of the world, while mine teeters on the razor’s edge between genius and madness.

Inside, Kelly’s mechanical breath hums through the baby monitor I keep propped on the table next to my cup. She’s alive—barely. Her presence is less of a person and more of a haunting. But that’s my doing, isn’t it? I’m the conductor of this twisted symphony. She’s merely the instrument, warped and discordant.

I take another sip, savoring the bitter edge. It matches my mood.

When I step back inside, the warmth of the sun disappears, swallowed by the cool sterility of Kelly’s condo. I make my way down the hall, the sound of my footsteps swallowed by the plush carpet. Her room smells like antiseptic and stale despair, a stark contrast to the salty air outside.

She’s awake. Her eye flickers open when I push the door open with my hip, a breakfast tray balanced in my hands. “Morning, sunshine,” I chirp, setting the tray down with exaggerated cheer. “It’s another beautiful day in paradise. Too bad you can’t enjoy it.”

Her eye narrows, a flicker of emotion breaking through her usual blankness. Anger? Resentment? I can’t quite tell, but it fuels me.

“I made you breakfast,” I say, gesturing to the unappetizing pile of oatmeal that I didn’t bother to heat up properly. “You’ve been so ungrateful lately, I figured I’d spoil you a little.”

Her gaze shifts to the tray, then back to me. I know she won’t eat it. She’s not stupid. She knows I might’ve added something extra, something to keep her teetering on the edge of survival. But it doesn’t matter. The real feast is the power I feel watching her squirm.

“You know,” I begin, sitting down, “I’ve been thinking. You’ve had a lot of time to reflect, lying here day after day. And I’ve had a lot of time to... analyze.”

I lean in closer, resting my elbows on my knees. “Tell me, Kelly, did you ever sit in that comfy little therapist chair of yours and feel a single shred of guilt?”

Her lips twitch, almost imperceptibly. It’s the most movement I’ve seen in days. Interesting.

“You know, I’ve wondered for a long time why you never fought back,” I say, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Why you just let me waltz into your life, into your practice, like it was nothing.”

Her gaze darts to the baby monitor on the side table. She knows I’m recording everything. Smart, but not smart enough.

“I mean, really,” I continue, leaning back with a smirk. “You could’ve told someone. You could’ve screamed, fought, done something. But you didn’t. And do you know what I think?”

I pause for dramatic effect, savoring the way her breathing grows shallow.

“I think you wanted this,” I say, my smile widening. “You wanted to be punished. You wanted me to hurt you.”

Her eye blazes with something—defiance, maybe. Or fear. It’s delicious.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” I tease, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You and I both know you’re no saint. You’ve been pulling strings from the moment I walked into your office twenty years ago. You knew exactly who I was from day one. Didn’t you?”

Her eye closes, a slow, deliberate blink. A confirmation. My stomach tightens, the realization hitting me like a freight train.

“You knew,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “You knew from the beginning.”

Her eye opens again, and there’s something there—a flicker of triumph. She wanted me to figure this out, wanted me to unravel the threads of this tangled web she’s been spinning.

“Well, that’s just rich,” I say, laughing bitterly. “You played the long game, didn’t you? All those years of therapy, all those lies. And for what? To see how far I’d go? To push me to this?”

Her gaze remains steady, unflinching. It’s infuriating.

“You’re sick,” I snap, standing up and pacing the room. “You’re just as twisted as I am, maybe more. You could’ve stopped this. You could’ve ended it all before it even started. But you didn’t. And do you know why?”

I whirl around, pointing a finger at her. “Because you wanted this. You wanted me to hurt you. You thought it would make up for what you did, didn’t you? For leaving me, for abandoning Sophie. This is your penance, isn’t it?”

Her silence is deafening, her expression a mask of controlled defiance. But I see the cracks. I see the truth.

“Well, congratulations,” I say, my voice dripping with venom. “You got what you wanted. But don’t think for a second that this changes anything. You’re still mine, Kelly. And I’m not done with you.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out the small vial of paralytic, holding it up for her to see. Her gaze widens, her breaths quickening.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” I say, smirking. “You didn’t think I’d let you off that easily, did you?”

I draw the syringe, the clear liquid catching the light. Her body stiffens, a futile attempt to resist what’s coming.

“This is going to feel... interesting,” I say, injecting the solution into her IV. “Your heart’s going to start racing. Then it’ll slow down. And you’ll feel like you can’t breathe. But don’t worry—I’ll make sure you wake up. This time.”

Her stare is wild now, her chest heaving as the paralytic takes hold. I lean in close, my voice a whisper in her ear.

“No one will ever hear you scream,” I say, grinning as her body goes still, her good eye rolling back in her head. “Sweet dreams, Kelly.”

I stand there for a moment, watching as her body succumbs to the drug. It’s a satisfying sight, the culmination of years of rage and betrayal boiling to the surface. But as I turn to leave, a strange sensation washes over me. It’s not regret, exactly, but something close. A flicker of doubt, a question I can’t quite shake.

Did she win?

I shake my head, dismissing the thought. No, this isn’t about her. It’s about me. It’s always been about me.

I close the door behind me, the sound of her shallow breaths fading into the silence. And as I walk down the hall, the weight of my own darkness pressing down on me, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever be free of her. Or if she’ll haunt me forever.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The soft rustle of the ocean outside my window is almost soothing, almost convincing enough to make me believe the world is normal. But then, normal is relative, isn’t it? For someone like me, “normal” is a cracked mirror reflecting a thousand tiny lies.

I step outside to collect the mail. The neighborhood is quiet, the kind of eerie silence that settles when everyone’s busy pretending their lives are perfect. I pause by the mailbox, the metal cool against my fingers, and savor the moment. The world feels suspended, like I’m on the edge of something thrilling and terrible.

The envelope is small, pale blue, and addressed to me in a child’s handwriting. My name curls across the surface, each letter painstakingly crafted, as if written by a hand unfamiliar with control.

I glance up and down the street, searching for a sign, a clue, but all I see are empty driveways and closed blinds. My neighbors live in their bubbles, oblivious to the storm brewing in mine.

Inside, I settle onto the couch, the envelope clutched in my hand. Something about it feels wrong. The handwriting is too neat, too deliberate, and yet it tugs at the edge of memory, a faint echo of my childhood.

When I slide my nail under the flap and pull out the note, my breath catches.

It’s written in Sophie’s handwriting. My dead sister’s childish scrawl, complete with the little loops she always added to her "y’s."

My hands tremble, but I tell myself it’s just a coincidence. A prank. Some sick joke. Except, no one alive could know what’s written here.

I know what you did to Brianna.

The words stab me, sharp and accusing. My vision blurs for a moment, memories crashing into me like waves against the rocks. Brianna’s face flashes in my mind, her mouth opening in shock when I hit her over the head with the rock. The way her body went limp, the fisherman’s anchor dragging her into the depths of the bay.

I force a laugh, sharp and bitter, and toss the note onto the coffee table.

“Cute,” I say aloud, my voice echoing in the empty room. But my stomach churns. Who would know? Who could possibly know?

I open the next envelope, my fingers moving faster now, driven by a mix of dread and curiosity.

You always hated me, didn’t you?

My breath catches. The handwriting is the same, eerily precise, as if Sophie’s ghost sat down to pen me a letter from beyond the grave. My mind flickers to the closet in our childhood bedroom, where I used to hide from our father’s drunken rages, Sophie’s tiny body curled against mine. Her whispers in the dark, promising me that one day we’d escape.

I shove the note into the pile with the first, my chest tightening. It’s just a prank, I tell myself. Someone trying to mess with me. But how would anyone know?

The next letter answers the unspoken question.

Remember Isaac’s blood on your hands? You made him do it, Shae. You made him cut off his fingers.

My pulse pounds in my ears as the memory surfaces, vivid and grotesque. Isaac tied to his workbench, his eyes wide with fear and disbelief. The hammer in his trembling hand as I stood over him, my voice cold and commanding. “Take off your ring finger, and I’ll let you keep it. If you think you can drive yourself to the emergency room, they’ll sew it right back on for you. Like brand-new. Mostly. Hard to play golf without fingers, right?”

The letters fall from my hands, scattering across the floor. My breathing is shallow, my vision narrowing. I close my eyes, trying to block out the images, but they only grow stronger, more vivid.

“Get a grip,” I mutter, my voice shaking.

But the next envelope taunts me from the pile, daring me to open it. My fingers move before I can stop them.

You always blamed me for everything. But who’s the real monster, Shae? Who pushed me off the pier?

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My hand trembles, the letter slipping from my grasp as I stagger to my feet. The room tilts around me, my balance precarious. I clutch the edge of the coffee table, the wood digging into my palms.

I see Sophie on the pier, her wide eyes reflecting the moonlight. I hear her voice, pleading with me, and then my own voice, cold and sharp, fueled by jealousy and rage. The push. The scream. The splash.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “This isn’t real. This isn’t⁠—”

But it is. It’s all real, and someone knows. Someone has pulled the memories from the dark corners of my mind and laid them bare, a grotesque display of my sins.

I gather the letters in a frenzy, my movements jerky and frantic. My chest tightens, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I stumble into the kitchen, the envelopes clutched in my hand like a lifeline. The stovetop burner flicks to life with a hiss, the blue flame dancing before me.

One by one, I feed the letters to the fire, watching as the paper curls and blackens, the words consumed by the flames. Smoke rises, acrid and sharp, filling my lungs with a bitter satisfaction.

The last letter lingers in my hand, the edges singed but the words still visible.

Brianna said she forgives you. Do you forgive yourself?

I laugh, a sharp, humorless sound, and toss it into the fire. The flame consumes it with a final hiss, leaving only ash and the faint scent of smoke.

The room is silent, the letters reduced to nothing. But the weight in my chest doesn’t lift. The memories remain, clawing at the edges of my mind, refusing to be burned away.

I sink into a chair, the locket around my neck feeling heavier than ever. My fingers trace the edge of it, the metal cool against my skin. The photo inside—the one of Sophie—feels like a mockery now, a reminder of everything I’ve done, everything I’ve lost.

The sound of footsteps outside jolts me from my thoughts. I stiffen, my eyes darting to the window. The blinds are drawn, but I can see the shadow of someone moving past the house, their figure obscured by the fading light.

I rise slowly, my heart pounding. The letters are gone, but the questions remain. Who sent them? And how much do they know?

As the shadow moves on, disappearing down the street, I tell myself it’s just a neighbor, just someone out for an evening walk. But the unease lingers, a knot in my stomach that refuses to be untied.

The house feels too quiet, too still. The walls seem to close in, the air heavy with the weight of unseen eyes. I lock the door, double-check the windows, and retreat to my room, the locket still clutched in my hand.

As I lie in bed, the events of the day replay in my mind, the letters, the fire, the shadow outside. Sleep doesn’t come easily, and when it does, it’s filled with nightmares. Sophie’s face haunts me, her voice echoing in the darkness.

Do you forgive yourself?

Do you forgive yourself?

Do you forgive yourself?

Chapter Twenty-Six

The park is too green, too idyllic, as if it’s mocking me with its picturesque serenity. The kind of place where normal people stroll with their normal dogs, enjoying their normal lives. Taylor walks beside me, his hand grazing mine occasionally, but I pretend not to notice. Toby trots ahead, his tail wagging.

Taylor is mid-sentence, talking about some fishing trip he took as a kid. His words wash over me like the lapping waves I can hear in the distance. I’m not listening; I’m too busy fighting the knot in my stomach. His kindness is a dagger, twisting deeper with every glance, every smile.

“So, what about you?” Taylor asks suddenly, his voice pulling me from the undertow of my thoughts. “Any fond childhood memories? A favorite vacation spot?”

I let out a snort before I can stop myself. “Vacation? Oh, sure. My dad used to pack us up and take us to the Ritz-Carlton. First-class all the way.”

Taylor chuckles, oblivious to the venom coiling behind my sarcasm. “You’re funny, you know that?”

Funny. That’s what they all say until the cracks start to show.

My hand tightens around Toby’s leash. The sun filters through the trees, dappling the pavement with soft light, but all I can see is the dim, moldy closet of my childhood. My father’s voice echoes in my head, sharp and slurred. “You can’t do anything right, Shae. Can’t even feed your sister.”

I blink hard, shaking the memory loose. Taylor’s still looking at me, waiting for a real answer. I summon my best Sophie smile, the one I’ve perfected for moments like this. Sweet, shy, harmless.

“Not much to tell,” I say, my voice light. “I guess you could say I had a... unique upbringing.”

His brow furrows, concern flickering across his face. “Unique how?”

God, why is he always so interested? It feels like being under a microscope, his gaze peeling back layers I didn’t know I still had.

“Oh, you know,” I say breezily, deflecting. “Quirky family dynamics. Nothing Hallmark would make a movie about.”

He doesn’t push, thank God. Instead, he reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. It’s such a simple gesture, but it sets off a cascade of memories I can’t stop.

Isaac’s basement smelled like oil and sawdust. The cold metal of the wrench pressed against my palm as I handed it to him. He looked up, his face half-hidden under the brim of his baseball cap.

“Good girl,” he’d said, grinning at me. Sixteen years old and desperate for approval, I’d soaked it up like a dry sponge.

Years later, tied to his workbench, his screams filled the room as I handed him the hammer to remove his fingers instead of the wrench.

“Take off your ring finger,” I’d whispered, my voice dripping with venom. “It’s not like you know what it means to be faithful anyway.”

Taylor squeezes my hand, grounding me in the present. I glance at him, and the sincerity in his eyes makes my stomach churn. It’s too much, too raw. I’m not Sophie. I’ll never be Sophie.

“I think Toby’s found something,” Taylor says, nodding toward the dog, who’s sniffing furiously at a patch of grass. His tail wags like he’s found gold.

I force a laugh, the sound brittle. “Probably just another squirrel. He’s obsessed with them.”

Taylor kneels to pet Toby, his kindness radiating in a way that makes my chest ache. He’s too good, too patient. I can’t help but wonder what he sees in me. He doesn’t know, can’t know, that every kind word and soft smile is a chisel chipping away at the walls I’ve spent years building.

The police officer’s face was grim when he came to the door. I was sixteen, standing in my pajamas while my father leaned against the frame, a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

“Your daughter, Sophie...” the officer began, his voice heavy with regret.

The world tilted. Sophie was gone. My sweet, perfect little sister, the one good thing in my life, had been taken by the same cruel universe that had left me behind.

I stumble, the weight of the memory nearly knocking me off balance. Taylor’s hand shoots out, steadying me.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice laced with concern.

“Yeah,” I manage, forcing a smile. “Just tripped. I’m fine.”

But I’m not fine. My head is a whirlwind of ghosts and whispers, each memory clawing at me with jagged nails.

We reach a bench, and Taylor motions for me to sit. I do, grateful for the reprieve. Toby jumps up beside me, his warm body a small comfort against the chill in my bones.

Taylor sits next to me, his knee brushing mine. He doesn’t say anything, just lets the silence stretch between us. It’s unsettling, how comfortable he seems in the quiet. Most people would fill it with chatter, but not him. He’s waiting, giving me space to speak if I want to.

“I’m not good at this,” I blurt out, surprising myself.

“At what?” he asks, his voice gentle.

“This.” I gesture vaguely between us. “Whatever this is. Being... normal.”

He smiles, but it’s tinged with sadness. “You don’t have to be normal, Kelly. Just be you.”

The words are like a punch to the gut. Be me? He has no idea what he’s asking. And silly me, I’d forgotten that he doesn’t even know my real name–to him, I am Kelly Fraser, the therapist. In some weird twist of fate–to him, I am her–the woman that ruined my life.

“I should get home,” I say abruptly, standing up. “It’s almost dinner time.”

Taylor doesn’t argue. He stands and takes my hand again, his grip warm and steady. “I’ll walk you back.”

The condo looms ahead, its sterile walls a sharp contrast to the warm glow of Taylor’s presence as we walk. My stomach twists as we approach, the weight of my double life pressing down on me.

We stop at the door, and Taylor turns to me, his eyes searching mine. “I meant what I said earlier,” he says softly. “I can see a future with you, Kelly.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. My heart races, torn between the part of me that wants to believe him and the part that knows better.

I force another smile, the Sophie smile. “That’s sweet of you.”

He leans in, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that’s too tender, too real. It leaves me feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way I’m not used to.

“Goodnight, Beautiful,” he whispers, pulling back.

“Goodnight,” I reply, my voice barely audible.

I watch him walk away, his figure fading into the darkness. Once he’s out of sight, I step inside, closing the door behind me. The condo feels colder, emptier, as if Taylor’s warmth had never been here at all.

I make my way to Kelly’s room, the hum of the baby monitor guiding me like a beacon. She’s awake, her gaze following me as I enter.

“Miss me?” I ask, my voice dripping with mock sweetness.

Her gaze is sharp, accusatory. She knows I’ve been with Taylor, knows I’ve been playing house while she rots in this prison I’ve built for her.

“You should be grateful,” I say, sitting at her bedside. “I could’ve left you alone tonight. But here I am, taking care of you like the good daughter I am.”

Her eye narrows, and I can’t help but laugh. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You brought this on yourself, Kelly. Or should I say, Mom?”

I lean in close, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Do you think he’d still like me if he knew the truth? If he knew what I’ve done? What you’ve done?”

Her silence is deafening, her expression unreadable. But I see the fear in her gaze, the flicker of doubt. And it’s enough.

“Sweet dreams,” I say, standing up and turning off the lights. “You’ll need your rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”

I leave her there, alone in the darkness, her shallow breaths the only sound in the room. And as I crawl into bed, Toby curling up beside me, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m teetering on the edge of something I can’t control. Something that’s been building inside me for years, waiting to explode.

But not yet. Not tonight.

Tonight, I’ll sleep. And tomorrow, I’ll decide who I want to be: Shae, the survivor, or Sophie, the saint.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The condo looms ahead as Taylor and I walk Toby along the quiet street a few evenings later. The air is thick with salt, a breeze brushing past us, teasing at something just out of reach. Taylor’s fingers brush against mine, and I resist the urge to pull away. Not because I don’t like the contact—no, that’s the problem. I do. And that’s dangerous.

“I could get used to this,” Taylor says, his voice soft but confident. He’s talking about us, I realize. His tone is filled with that nauseatingly sweet optimism that makes me want to scream and melt into the ground at the same time.

Toby trots ahead, oblivious to my spiraling thoughts. The leash feels like a lifeline, grounding me as Taylor’s words threaten to crack open something inside me. Something I don’t want to face.

“Yeah,” I murmur, my voice hollow. “It’s nice.”

I can feel his eyes on me, searching, as if he can see the chaos clawing beneath my skin. I plaster on a smile—the kind Sophie would’ve worn effortlessly—and tilt my head toward him.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Taylor says, his brows furrowing slightly.

“Just tired,” I lie. “Long day with Mom. You know how it is.”

He nods, his expression softening. “You’re incredible, you know that? Taking care of her like this.”

My stomach knots, the praise twisting like a blade. I want to laugh, scream, cry—anything to shatter this moment. But I don’t. Instead, I let the lie simmer, leaning into the role I’ve created. Sweet, dutiful Shae, the martyr.

We turn onto the condo’s driveway, and I can see Kelly’s shadow through the blinds. She’s awake. Watching. Waiting. I nearly stumble, then pause, looking to buy time as I open the mailbox. Such a normal gesture weighted with so much more.

When I open the mailbox, my breath catches.

There they are. The same pale blue envelopes, lined up perfectly, identical to the ones I burned two days ago. My name, curling across each one in Sophie’s handwriting.

“Of course,” I mutter, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because I don’t have enough nightmares to unpack.”

“You okay?” Taylor’s voice jerks me from the terror hammering through my chest–for a split second the sight of the offending letters made me forget he was there.

“Fine–just thinking about everything I have to do. Thanks for the walk.”

Taylor slows his steps, the air between us suddenly thick with tension. He looks at me, his expression shifting into something more serious.

“Did you hear what happened to Toby’s owner? One of the neighbors filled me in,” he says, his voice dropping slightly.

I freeze, my hand tightening on the leash. “Isaac?”

He nods, and my heart starts pounding, a drumbeat of panic that I can’t control.

“There was a break-in at his place,” Taylor says, his words measured. “Or maybe an armed robbery. No one’s really sure yet. It went sideways. They found him tied up in the basement. Barely alive.”

My mind splinters. The leash slips from my hand as I stumble back against the porch railing. Toby whines, circling my legs.

“Tied up?” I manage, my voice a strangled whisper.

“Yeah.” Taylor nods, his gaze heavy with something I can’t place. Pity? Suspicion? “He lost a lot of blood. Went into shock. He’s in a coma now, but... he’s alive.”

Alive.

The word hits me like a freight train, ripping through the careful façade I’ve built. My vision blurs, memories crashing over me in jagged waves.

The basement was dark, the only light coming from the flickering bulb overhead. Isaac was tied to the workbench, his moans echoing around the space, the scent of his blood in the air. The hammer in my hand felt heavy, the weight a reminder of the pain.

“Take off your ring finger,” I’d hissed, my voice shaking with rage and something darker. “If you wait for me to do it, I’ll take off every single one of them. Slowly.” I cringe at the memory. “I you do it, there’ll be less blood than if you make me do it.”

“Kelly?” Taylor’s voice snaps me back to the present, his hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”

I blink, forcing the memories to the back of my mind. “Yeah,” I say quickly. “Just... shocked. I didn’t know.”

He nods, his expression softening. “It’s a lot to take in. They think it was random, but... who knows? People can be monsters.”

Monsters. The word hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. I force a weak smile, nodding as if I agree.

“I should get inside,” I say, my voice tight. “Mom’s probably wondering where I am.”

Taylor steps back, giving me space, but his eyes linger on mine. “If you need anything... you’ll call, right?”

“Of course,” I lie.

He nods, leaning in to kiss my cheek. The gesture feels too intimate, too real, and I hate how much I like it. “See ya soon.”

I hum softly, giving Taylor a quick wave before slamming the door behind me. The noise startles Toby, who looks up at me with wide, confused eyes. I wave him off with a muttered apology and drop the letters onto the kitchen counter.

They’re the same. Exactly the same. Except this time, there’s more.

I rip open the first envelope, and my stomach churns as I see the words I read from the last stack, written in that childlike scrawl. But now, in the margins, there’s a new message:

You didn’t mean to kill me, did you? But you still did.

My throat tightens. I shove the note aside and tear into the next one.

I fell because of you, Shae. You were supposed to save me.

I close my eyes, but the memories crash into me anyway. Sophie and I on the Santa Cruz wharf that night as teenagers. Jesika on the riverwalk in Chicago a few years ago. Brianna in the sand a few months ago. The moonlight reflecting off the water, their voices trembling with frustration. My anger boiling over, the push—not hard, not meant to hurt them, just meant to silence them for a second.

The splash.

The silence.

I shove the letter away and open the last envelope, my hands shaking now.

You didn’t even try to pull me out. You just watched.

The words blur in front of me. My breath comes in short, shallow bursts as my vision tunnels. I grip the counter for support, the cold surface grounding me. My heart pounds so loudly it drowns out every other sound.

“No,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “No, no, no.”

The letters taunt me, their presence like a living thing in the room. My mind races, trying to piece together an explanation, but nothing makes sense. No one else was there that night. No one else could possibly know what happened.

Unless…

I whirl around, scanning the room like Sophie herself might be standing there, waiting for me to crumble. My gaze lands on the window, the sheer curtains fluttering slightly in the breeze. The street outside is quiet, empty. Too quiet.

I scoop up the letters and shove them into a drawer, slamming it shut with more force than necessary. My fingers tremble as I lock the drawer, as if that will keep the ghosts out.

As I lean against the counter, my chest heaving, one thought rises above the chaos in my mind.

Whoever sent these…they’re not done with me.

The shadows in the hallway stretching long and thin across the walls. I head straight for Kelly’s room, my heart pounding like a war drum.

She’s sitting up, her eye wide and alert. She knows. She always knows.

“You look worried,” I say, my voice dripping with mock concern. “Did you miss me?”

Her gaze flickers with fear…or is it satisfaction?

“I’ve got news,” I say, “guess who’s still alive?”

Her expression doesn’t change, but I can see the slight twitch of her fingers. She’s not as paralyzed as she pretends to be.

“Isaac,” I say, leaning in close. “He was my first boyfriend–he took my virginity and then left me right after. Let’s just say I got my revenge when he found me–or you–to be his therapist. He’s in a coma now, but he’s alive. Which means...” I trail off, letting the implication sink in.

She blinks, a single tear sliding down her disfigured cheek.

“Oh, don’t cry,” I coo, my tone sweet. “This is a good thing. It means the universe isn’t done punishing him yet.”

Her breathing quickens, the sound ragged and uneven. It’s almost enough to make me feel something. Almost.

“But you,” I continue, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re not off the hook either. Not by a long shot.”

I stand, turning off the bedside lamp. The darkness swallows the room, leaving only the faint glow of the baby monitor.

“Sweet dreams,” I say, heading for the door. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

As I crawl into bed, Toby curling up beside me, I can’t shake the weight of Taylor’s words. Isaac is alive. The thought churns in my stomach, a cocktail of fear and rage.

I close my eyes, the darkness behind my lids alive with memories. The closet. Sophie’s laughter. Isaac’s groans. The smell of whiskey on my father’s breath.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. It never does. But when it does, it’s fitful and shallow, haunted by ghosts that refuse to stay buried.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The sun is barely up, but the air already has that salty tang that clings to everything around here. I’m perched on the edge of Kelly’s bed, holding a needle between my fingers, the point gleaming in the weak morning light. It’s a tiny thing, really, but oh, how it commands attention.

Kelly’s stare, wide and frantic, dart from the needle to my face. She tries to move her hands, tries to summon strength to protest, but all she manages is a pathetic twitch. Weak. Powerless. Exactly the way I like her.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” I say, feigning indignation. “This is therapeutic. Pain builds character, or did they not cover that in your fancy psych classes?”

The corners of her mouth twitch in what might be an attempt at speech, but nothing coherent comes out. I lean in closer, the needle hovering just above her pale, scarred forearm. “You should be grateful I’m even here. You’d be rotting in some state-run hellhole if it weren’t for me.”

Her breathing quickens, shallow and erratic, and for a moment, I let the silence stretch. It’s a delicious kind of tension, the way she’s trapped between fear and fury. She deserves this. Every pinprick is a tally against years of abandonment, neglect, and lies.

I press the tip of the needle against her skin—not too hard, not yet—and watch as her body tenses. It’s almost a reflex now, this dance of torment and power. But before I can savor the next step, there’s a sharp knock at the door.

“Kelly?” Taylor’s voice, warm and familiar, cuts through the air. My stomach clenches.

What the hell is he doing here?

Kelly’s gaze widens further, her panic palpable, and I hiss under my breath.

“Don’t even think about it,” I whisper, setting the needle down on the tray beside the bed.

I smooth my hair, adjust my expression into something resembling innocence, and head to the door. Toby barks from the living room, his stubby tail wagging as Taylor’s voice filters in again.

“Hey, I brought breakfast,” Taylor says when I open the door, holding up a brown paper bag and a coffee carrier. His smile falters slightly as he takes me in, his eyes scanning my face. “You okay? You look… tense.”

Tense? Try murderous. But I force a laugh, brushing it off. “Just tired. You know how it is—long night with Mom.”

He nods, stepping inside, his presence immediately too big for the space. “I thought you could use something sweet to start the day,” he says, setting the bag on the counter. “Pastries from that little place down the street.”

It’s a kind gesture, annoyingly so, and I hate how my chest tightens at the thought of someone doing something thoughtful for me. This isn’t how it works. People don’t just give without expecting something in return.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice strained as I glance toward the hallway. Kelly’s moans are faint but persistent, a low, guttural reminder of what I was in the middle of.

Taylor’s brow furrows. “Is everything okay? I thought I heard something when I came in.”

My heart pounds as I step in front of him, blocking his view of the hallway. “She’s just… having a rough morning. Happens sometimes. You know how it is.”

But he doesn’t look convinced. He tilts his head, his gaze slipping past me. “Maybe I should say hi. She might like the company.”

“No!” The word comes out too sharp, too forceful, and his eyes snap back to mine. I scramble for an explanation, something that doesn’t reek of desperation. “I mean, she’s not really up for visitors. She had a rough night. Medications and all.”

He hesitates, and for a moment, I think I’ve won. But then there’s another faint moan from Kelly’s room, and concern crosses his features.

“She’s fine,” I say, my voice too high, too defensive.

Taylor’s expression softens, just a fraction, but it’s enough to make my chest ache. “Kelly, I know this is hard on you. I know you’ve been through hell. I wish you’d let me help out more⁠—”

“I’m fine,” I force a smile.

Taylor steps closer, his hands cupping my face. “You don’t have to do this alone.

His eyes are filled with something like compassion? Or is it pity? I hate it. I hate him. But I hate myself more.

“You’re not alone,” he says softly. “You don’t have to carry this burden by yourself—after everything with Dean⁠—”

My mind reels with that single word: Dean. What does he know? I’m almost certain I never mentioned my ex-husband to Taylor.

“And the stuff in Carmel—I can help,” he continues.

For a moment, I want to believe him. I want to let go of the anger, the pain, the darkness that’s consumed me for so long. But then I think about Kelly, her gaze pleading, and the rage flares up again.

“I’m sorry—I’m just not up for company today—thank you for checking on me though.”

He hesitates, his gaze searching mine one last time, and then he nods. “Okay. If you think that’s best.”

As he walks away, the weight of his words settles over me like a suffocating blanket. If you think that’s best. The truth is, I don’t know what’s best anymore. Maybe I never did.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The smell of saltwater seeps into the cracks of this house like a reminder that the ocean is always waiting, ready to swallow secrets. I stand by the window, gripping the edge of the counter as Taylor’s words replay in my head.

Dean.

How does he know about Dean? I never told him about my ex-husband. I never told anyone—not the real story, anyway. My chest tightens as pieces start to fit together in a puzzle I didn’t even know I was assembling.

Taylor’s too good to be true. The kind smile, the perfect timing, the way he seems to see me, like really see me. Nobody sees me. Not unless they’re looking for something.

I glance at Kelly, strapped in her bed like the grotesque reminder of all the reasons I can’t trust anyone. Her one good eye rolls toward me, aware enough to know I’m spiraling. She doesn’t say anything, of course—she can’t—but her presence is louder than words.

“He knows about Dean,” I mutter, pacing the room. “How the hell does he know about Dean?”

Kelly doesn’t respond. She never does, but I swear her eye narrows just a fraction, like she’s taunting me. Like she’s saying, I knew you’d mess this up.

I snap my head toward her, my voice sharp. “What are you looking at? You think this is funny? This is your fault, you know. You’re the reason I’m like this.”

She blinks slowly, and it infuriates me. That placid, passive expression she’s perfected over weeks of my care—of my work—is unbearable now. It’s a mask, and I know masks. I’ve worn them my whole life.

I grab the tray of syringes from the bedside table and slam it onto the dresser, the metallic clang satisfying in its violence. Kelly flinches, barely, but it’s enough to remind me who’s in charge here.

The doorbell rings, and my stomach lurches.

“Of course,” I hiss under my breath. “Perfect timing as always.”

I leave the room, closing the door behind me, and check the peephole. It’s Taylor. Again. My hand hovers over the doorknob, hesitating. What’s his angle? Is he here to comfort me, or to gather more evidence? He’s hardly been gone an hour.

I force a smile as I open the door. “Taylor. Back so soon,” I say through the crack.

“I wanted to check on you,” he says, sliding the door open and walking past me, his presence filling the room with a weight I can’t define. I close the door, locking it with a deliberate click that feels louder than it should.

He turns to face me when he reaches the kitchen, his expression soft but searching. “You were upset earlier. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Upset?” I laugh, but it sounds brittle. “I’m always upset. That’s my default setting, didn’t you know?”

His smile falters. “Kelly, you don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?” I snap, the words sharper than I intend. “Be ungrateful? Be suspicious? Be me?”

“Push people away,” he says quietly, and the gentleness in his voice feels like a slap.

I cross my arms, leaning against the counter. “I don’t push people away. They leave. Big difference.”

“I’m not leaving,” he says, stepping closer. “No matter how hard you try to make me.”

For a moment, I almost believe him. But then the memory of his earlier slip rushes back, cold and cutting.

“Dean,” I say, the word hanging heavy between us. “How do you know about him?”

Taylor’s face changes, just slightly—a flicker of something he tries to hide. But I see it. I always see it.

“I told you, I’m a good listener,” he says, too casually. “You mentioned him once.”

“No, I didn’t.” My voice is ice now, each word deliberate. “I never said his name. So how do you know, Taylor?”

He hesitates, and that’s all the confirmation I need. My chest tightens, and I feel the walls closing in. He’s been playing me this whole time, and I fell for it. Stupid, stupid Shae.

“I need you to trust me,” he says, his tone careful now, measured. “I can explain.”

“You’re not who you say you are,” I whisper, more to myself than him. “You’re a liar. Just like the rest of them.”

“No—”

I don’t let him finish. I lunge for the tray on the counter, grabbing the syringe I prepped earlier for Kelly. It’s loaded with a paralytic—just enough to keep her still, compliant. It’ll work on him too.

“What are you doing?” he says, his voice calm but firm. He raises his hands, taking a step back. “We can talk about this.”

“You don’t get to ‘talk about’ anything,” I hiss, advancing on him. “You think you can just waltz into my life, pretend to care, and then what? Arrest me? Lock me up? Do you even know what I’ve done?”

“Of course not, listen to me⁠—”

“No!” I scream, the sound tearing from my throat like a feral animal. “You don’t get to do this! You don’t get to do anything!”

Before he can react, I stab the syringe into his arm and press the plunger. His eyes widen in shock, and he stumbles back, clutching at his arm.

“Kelly—” His voice is already slurring, his movements sluggish. “What… did you…?”

I watch as his legs give out, and he collapses to the floor, his breathing labored. I crouch beside him, my heart racing as I stare into his panicked eyes.

“You wanted to help me?” I say, my voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Well, congratulations. You’re helping.”

I grab his arms, dragging him toward Kelly’s room. He’s heavier than he looks, and by the time I get him inside, I’m sweating. I tie his wrists to the radiator with the cord from the blinds, yanking it tight. He groans, barely conscious, and I slap his face lightly.

“Stay with me, Taylor,” I coo. “We’re just getting started.”

Kelly’s eye rolls toward him, her breathing shallow. She looks at me, then at him, and I swear there’s a flicker of something in her expression. Pity? No. Amusement. The bitch is amused.

“This is your fault,” I tell her, my voice venomous. “You started this. You made me like this.”

Taylor groans again, his head lolling to the side. I crouch beside him, brushing his hair back like a lover. “You thought you could save me,” I whisper. “That’s adorable. Really.”

He tries to speak, but the paralytic is working fast. His lips move, but no sound comes out.

“Don’t worry,” I say, standing. “I’ll take good care of both of you. After all, I’m very good at this.”

Kelly’s gaze burns into me, and for the first time, I feel a flicker of doubt. Not regret—never regret—but something close. It doesn’t matter. This is my game now, and I always win.

Chapter Thirty

The room is suffocatingly quiet except for the rhythmic creak of the old chair as I lean back, balancing on two legs. Taylor’s head hangs low, his breathing shallow but steady, his wrists red and raw from the cord securing him to the radiator. Kelly watches from her bed, her one functional eye fixed on him like a disapproving ghost presiding over her own funeral.

I tap the edge of the syringe on the arm of the chair, letting the sound echo. It’s almost musical, in a macabre way. “So,” I say, breaking the silence, “how long are you going to keep up this innocent act? Because, frankly, it’s starting to bore me.”

Taylor groans, his head lolling to the side. “Kelly,” he croaks, his voice weak but clear enough. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, but I do,” I say, flashing a charming smile. “You see, I’ve been lied to enough in my life, and I have this… compulsion to set things straight. Call it a character flaw.”

He shifts against the radiator, his arms straining against the binds. “I never lied to you.”

“Never lied?” I let out a sharp laugh, the kind that slices through the air like broken glass. “Please. You’ve been lying since the moment we met. And the best part? I almost fell for it. Almost.”

His eyes meet mine, glassy but defiant. “I care about you.”

“Don’t insult me.” I slam the syringe down on the dresser, the metal tray clattering. “You don’t care about me. You care about whatever it is you’re here for. So let’s skip the foreplay and get to the confession, shall we?”

Taylor exhales a shaky breath, his jaw tightening. “You’re paranoid.”

I laugh again, this time softer, darker. “Oh, sweetheart, paranoia implies I don’t have proof. And yet…” I gesture to him, bound and helpless. “Here you are. So let’s start with an easy question: How do you know about Dean?”

His face hardens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to lie again. But then he sighs, his shoulders slumping. “Fine. You want the truth? I know about Dean because I’ve been watching you.”

I pause, the words sinking in. Watching me? Interesting.

“Go on,” I say, twirling the syringe in my fingers like a baton. “Tell me more about this little hobby of yours.”

Taylor swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I saw you… months ago. At the golf club. You were with Brianna.”

The name sends a jolt through me, but I keep my face neutral. “Brianna,” I echo, my voice cold. “What a coincidence. Do continue.”

“You two walked back from the beach together,” he says, his words slow and deliberate. “I didn’t think much of it at the time. But then she ended up dead. And Isaac… what happened to him…”

His voice trails off, and I feel my grip on the syringe tighten. So he knows. Or at least, he thinks he does.

“Let me guess,” I say, my tone mocking. “You’re about to tell me that you’ve pieced it all together. That I killed Brianna, tortured Isaac, and stole his dog. Is that your big revelation?”

Taylor’s eyes darken, his expression unreadable. “Am I wrong?”

I lean in, close enough to feel the heat of his breath. “What do you think?”

He doesn’t answer, but the tension in his jaw tells me everything I need to know. He’s sure of it. And yet, he hasn’t acted. Why? That’s the question gnawing at me.

“You’ve been playing a long game,” I say, tilting my head. “Getting close to me, pretending to care. All to gather evidence, right? That’s the plan?”

He hesitates, and it’s all the confirmation I need.

“Oh, Taylor,” I say, feigning disappointment. “And here I thought we had something real.”

“I didn’t want it to be this way,” he says, his voice almost pleading. “But you’re dangerous. People have died because of you.”

“People have died because they deserved it,” I snap, my voice rising. “Don’t act like you know me. You don’t know the first thing about what I’ve been through.”

Toby trots over then, nuzzling into Taylor’s neck. And then Taylor’s eyes round as awareness seems to dawn. “Toby–he’s…your trophy isn’t he? A keepsake after killing Brianna and almost killing Isaac…”

I narrow my eyes, uncomfortable with the way Taylor is looking at me right now. With a combination of pity and horror.

“It’s not like that.”

“Then tell me,” he says, his tone softer now. “Help me understand.”

For a moment, his words catch me off guard. Help him understand? Is he serious? But then I see it—the glimmer of manipulation in his eyes. He’s trying to play me. Again.

“You don’t get to understand,” I say, my voice cold. “You don’t get to anything. Not anymore.”

I jab the second syringe into his arm, just enough to make him flinch. He winces, but he doesn’t look away.

“Tell me everything,” I demand. “How long have you known? And who else knows?”

Taylor exhales shakily, his head leaning back against the radiator. “A week,” he admits. “I’ve known for about a week.”

“Liar,” I hiss, pressing the syringe deeper. “Try again.”

“I swear,” he says quickly, his voice strained. “I started putting it together after I saw the police report about Isaac. About how he was found tied up in his basement. And then I remembered the dog—Toby.”

I glance at Toby, curled up in the corner, oblivious to the chaos. My stomach churns. How careless was I?

“You’re working with the authorities,” I say, more statement than question. “Aren’t you?”

Taylor doesn’t answer, but his silence is enough.

“You’re helping the FBI,” I say, the realization hitting me like a freight train. “This whole time, you’ve been working with them.”

His jaw tightens, and I feel a surge of rage. How could I have been so blind?

“You think you’re so clever,” I say, my voice trembling with fury. “But you’re just like the rest of them. Liars. Manipulators. Users.”

“Shae,” he says, using my real name, “it doesn’t have to end like this.”

“Oh, but it does,” I say, my smile sharp and cruel, anger threatening to unleash like a geyser at his use of my real name. “And the best part? No one will ever know.”

I stand, the syringe still in my hand, and look at Kelly. Her eye is wide now, panicked. Good. Let her be scared.

“You,” I say, pointing the syringe at her, “started this. And now, I’m going to finish it.”

“Shae,” Taylor says, his voice desperate. “Stop. Please.”

I turn to him, my smile widening. “Why? Are you scared, Taylor? Afraid of what I’ll do?”

He doesn’t answer, but the fear in his eyes is answer enough. And for the first time in a long time, I feel truly in control.

Chapter Thirty-One

Taylor’s breath hitches, shallow and ragged, as the syringe in my hand gleams under the cold fluorescent light. The moment stretches taut, the silence broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning unit and Kelly’s uneven wheeze from across the room. Her one functional eye darts between us, wide and glassy, as if she’s silently begging for something—mercy, perhaps. But mercy isn’t on the menu tonight.

I run my fingers along the plunger of the syringe, letting the tension build. “You know, Taylor,” I say, my voice honeyed and venomous, “I almost believed you. Almost. Isn’t that funny? Me, of all people, falling for the kind-hearted neighbor routine. Bravo. You played your part beautifully.”

His eyes, bloodshot and desperate, lock onto mine. “Shae,” he rasps, his voice cracked and barely audible. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Don’t I?” I tilt my head, feigning thoughtfulness. “See, that’s the thing. You made me think I didn’t have to do this. You dangled this ridiculous notion of trust and goodness in front of me like a carrot, and for a second—a second—I wondered if I could actually have it. But then I remembered…” I lean in close, my breath brushing against his ear. “People like me? We don’t get to have that. And people like you? You’re the reason why.”

I straighten, forcing the smile back onto my face, even as my chest tightens with something I refuse to name. “Let’s take a trip down memory lane, shall we?” I wave the syringe lazily, pacing in front of him like a predator savoring its prey. “The tacos in Carmel. The long walks. The little notes you left me. God, you were good. So good, I almost forgot to hate you.”

“Shae, please⁠—”

“Don’t beg.” My voice sharpens, cutting through his plea. “It’s pathetic. And it won’t save you.”

His silence hangs heavy in the air, and I relish the weight of it. It’s the sound of his surrender, his realization that he’s lost. I kneel in front of him, meeting his gaze head-on. “You had me, Taylor. I’ll give you that. But you got greedy. You couldn’t just let me be. You had to dig. Had to push. And now here we are.”

I press the third syringe to his neck, feeling the pulse of his life beneath my fingers. “This,” I whisper, “is what happens when you try to take from me.”

He closes his eyes, his jaw tightening as he braces himself. For a moment, I see it—the fear, the regret, the resignation. And then I push the plunger.

The fluid disappears into his vein, and his body jerks slightly as the paralytic takes hold. His breathing slows, his chest rising and falling with agonizing effort. I sit back, watching him, my heart pounding in a rhythm that doesn’t quite match the smirk I wear.

“You know,” I say, my voice almost conversational, “I actually liked you. Isn’t that funny? Me, liking someone. It almost feels… human.”

He tries to speak, but the words catch in his throat, swallowed by the drug coursing through his system. His eyes stay locked on mine, wide and pleading, and for a moment, I almost falter. Almost.

But then the memories come rushing back—the nights I spent starving, the closet door slamming shut, the sound of Sophie’s cries fading into silence. Isaac’s mocking laughter. Brianna’s smug smile. And now Taylor, his kindness nothing but a weapon aimed at my weakness.

No. I can’t falter. Not now.

“I trusted you,” I say, my voice low and trembling with fury. “Do you have any idea how rare that is? How dangerous it is for someone like me to trust? And you… you took that trust and used it against me. Like everyone else.”

A tear slips down my cheek, and I swipe at it angrily. “God, I hate you. I hate you for making me feel… this.”

Taylor’s breath rattles, his chest rising one last time before falling still. The room goes silent, the weight of his death settling over me like a shroud. I stare at him, my hands trembling as I lower the syringe to the floor.

For a moment, I don’t move. I just sit there, staring at his lifeless body, my mind a whirlwind of anger and pain. And then, slowly, I rise.

“Good riddance,” I say, my voice cold and sharp as broken glass. “You came back. They always do. And it killed you.”

I step closer, my fingers brushing against his still-warm cheek. “You got what you deserved, traitor.”

Leaning in, I press a kiss to my fingertips and then to his lips, a twisted parody of the affection I once felt for him. “Goodbye, Taylor.”

I turn to Kelly, her eye wide and filled with something I can only describe as horror. “Don’t look at me like that,” I snap. “He was a liar. A manipulator. He would’ve turned me in. Is that what you want? To see me in a cage?”

She doesn’t answer, of course. She can’t. But her silence speaks volumes, and it fuels the fire burning in my chest.

“I did this for us,” I say, my voice trembling. “Don’t you see that? I’m protecting us. Protecting me. Because if I don’t, who will?”

She doesn’t respond, and the emptiness of her gaze sends a shiver down my spine. I turn away, unable to face her, and focus on the task at hand.

Cleaning up Taylor’s mess.

It takes hours to scrub the room of any trace of him. The syringes go into a plastic bag, along with the cords that bound him and the bloodied rag I used to wipe his neck. His body, now covered with a tarp, is stuffed in the closet until I can find time to dispose of him for good, waiting for the ocean to claim him, just like the others.

As I drive Taylor’s Jeep to the park-and-ride a mile away, the night air cool against my skin, I replay the last few hours in my mind. The look in Taylor’s eyes as he realized I knew. The way his body jerked when the drug took hold. The silence that followed.

I should feel victorious. I should feel powerful. But all I feel is… empty.

When I return to the condo, the moonlight casts an eerie glow over the room, and for a moment, I just sit there, staring at the endless expanse of black that is my life.

“You deserved it,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “You all did.”

And yet, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling this way. Hollow. Haunted. Alone.

Kelly’s eye follows me as I move about the room, her silence heavier than ever. I sit down beside her, my hands trembling as I take hers in mine.

“It’s over,” I say, my voice soft. “He’s gone. He can’t hurt us anymore.”

Her fingers twitch, the only response she can manage, and it sends a pang of something—guilt?—through me. I push it down, forcing a smile onto my face.

“We’re safe now,” I say, more to myself than to her. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

But even as I say the words, I know they’re a lie. Nothing will ever be fine. Not for me. Not for her. Not for anyone who dares to get close.

Because people like me? We’re poison. And no amount of love or kindness can change that.

Taylor tried. And now he’s gone.

And I’m still here.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The knock on the door is sharp, deliberate—nothing like Taylor’s gentle tap or the casual thud of a delivery. It slices through the quiet like a blade, stopping me mid-step as I cross the living room, Kelly’s moans faint in the background. My pulse quickens, instinct screaming for me to freeze, to let whoever it is think I’m not home. But then it comes again, more insistent, rattling the frame.

Who the hell could this be first thing in the morning?

I glance toward Kelly’s room, where the door is firmly shut. Her misery is contained for now, though I can almost feel her awareness pressing against the walls, like she’s listening, waiting. I take a breath and plaster on the mask—the polite, composed Shae who neighbors nod at and delivery drivers smile for.

I crack the door just enough to see who’s on the other side, and my stomach drops.

“Shae?” The man standing there is older now, gray streaking his once-dark hair, but his face is unmistakable. He’s thinner than I remember, his skin weathered, his eyes glassy with something I can’t quite place. Regret? Relief? Both?

“Dad,” I whisper, my voice cracking like a teenager’s. My hand tightens on the doorknob. “What are you… How⁠—?”

He smiles faintly, awkwardly, like he’s unsure of his welcome. “I know it’s been a long time. Too long.” He glances past me into the house, his brow furrowing slightly. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

For a second, I forget how to breathe. The sight of him floods me with memories I’ve spent years burying. The sound of his voice slurred with whiskey, the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes, the way he’d laugh too loudly and then disappear for days. But there’s something different now. He looks… fragile.

“I shouldn’t have come unannounced,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just—I had to see you. To make things right.”

Right. Like that’s possible. I want to slam the door in his face, scream at him for daring to show up after two decades of silence. But instead, my grip on the doorknob loosens, and before I can stop myself, I step aside.

“Come in.”

The words taste foreign, wrong, but they’re out before I can swallow them. He hesitates, as if he didn’t expect me to agree, then steps inside, his gaze darting around the house.

“It’s nice,” he says, his voice tentative. “Cozy.”

I close the door, leaning against it for support. “How did you find me?”

“A friend from the old neighborhood,” he says, turning to face me. “She mentioned you’d moved here. Said you were… working as a caregiver?” His tone lifts at the end, a question he’s too nervous to ask outright.

“Something like that,” I say, my throat dry, wondering if it’s one of those snarky girls from brunch a few days ago that clued him into my whereabouts. My mind races, scrambling to piece together an explanation, a way to keep him from digging too deep. “What do you want, Dad?”

His face softens, and for a moment, he looks almost… kind. “To see you. To talk. To… apologize.”

Apologize. The word hits me like a punch, and I laugh before I can stop myself—a sharp, bitter sound that makes him flinch.

“Apologize? For what? Abandoning me? Leaving me and Sophie to rot while you ran off to who-knows-where?”

“I didn’t—” He stops, his jaw tightening. “I didn’t mean to leave you like that. I wasn’t… I wasn’t in a good place.”

“Clearly.” My voice drips with sarcasm, but my hands are trembling. “So what, you just decided now’s the time to show up? After twenty years? What changed?”

He sighs, his shoulders slumping. “I’ve been clean for nearly a year, Shae. I’ve been trying to put my life back together, and part of that is making amends. I know I can’t undo the past, but I want to… I need to try.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Amends,” I repeat, the word tasting like ash. “You think showing up here and saying sorry is going to fix anything?”

“No,” he says quietly. “But I was hoping it could be a start.”

I stare at him, my chest tight. Part of me wants to throw him out, to scream at him for the years of pain he left in his wake. But another part—smaller, weaker, and far more dangerous—wants to believe him. Wants to believe that maybe, just maybe, someone from my past can be something other than a ghost.

I shake my head, trying to clear the fog. “Why now?”

“I’ve been looking for you for a while,” he admits. “When I heard where you were, I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to see you, to know you were okay.”

Okay. The word feels foreign, almost laughable. I glance toward Kelly’s room, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. “This isn’t a good time,” I say finally. “I have… responsibilities.”

He follows my gaze, his brow furrowing again. “You live alone?”

“Not exactly.” The lie slips out easily, and I curse myself for letting him in. “Look, Dad, I don’t know what you were expecting, but I’m not… I’m not the person you left behind.”

“I know,” he says, his voice heavy with regret. “And I’m not the same man who left.”

I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him. But I’ve been burned too many times to trust so easily.

“Maybe you should go,” I say, my voice trembling. “This was a mistake.”

“Shae—”

“Please,” I cut him off, my hands clenching into fists. “I can’t do this right now.”

He hesitates, pain flickering across his face, but he nods. “I understand. I’ll go. But… can I see you again? Maybe we can talk more, when you’re ready.”

I don’t answer, my throat too tight to speak. He takes the hint, moving toward the door with slow, measured steps. He pauses before opening it, turning to face me one last time.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “For everything.”

And then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

I stand there for a long time, staring at the empty space where he stood, my mind a storm of emotions I can’t untangle. Anger. Pain. Hope. Fear. They swirl together, threatening to pull me under.

“Sssshae?” Kelly’s muffled slur drags me back to reality, and I turn toward her room, my heart pounding.

“I’m coming,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended. I push the emotions aside, locking them away where they can’t hurt me. Not now. Not ever.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that vulnerability is a weapon. And I can’t afford to let anyone else use it against me.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The bedroom door creaks as I shove it closed, the sound too loud in the silence that’s settled like a suffocating fog. My hands tremble, and I press them flat against the cool wood, as if I can keep my dad’s presence from seeping in further. His face is burned into my mind—his weathered features, his hesitant smile, the hollow apology hanging in the air like a bad smell.

I want to scream. I want to laugh. I want to cry. Instead, I take a shaky breath and push myself off the door. One step at a time, I tell myself. Compartmentalize. Tidy it all up in neat little boxes and deal with the fallout later. That’s what I’m good at.

Kelly’s soft moan snakes through the house, a reminder that my carefully constructed chaos isn’t confined to my own mind. Her room is a shrine to her suffering and my revenge. And now he’s here. Him. My father. A ghost resurrected at the worst possible time.

Kelly’s eye flutters open as I near her bed, and the sight of her makes my rage spike, hot and relentless.

“You’ll never believe who just stopped by,” I say, my tone sharp enough to cut glass. “Dear old Dad. Did you send him? Is this some new game you’re playing?”

Her lips move, but no sound comes out. The muscles in her face twitch, a grotesque imitation of a response. It’s almost funny, the way she tries to communicate when we both know she’s powerless.

I stride to her bedside, leaning down until our faces are inches apart. “Was it your idea, Kelly? Did you think this would break me? Because let me tell you, it’s not going to work.”

Her gaze narrows, and I swear there’s a defiant sparkle in her eye. The nerve.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” I snap, straightening up. “You’re the one who started this whole mess. If you’d just stayed gone, none of this would’ve happened. But no, you had to worm your way back into my life, didn’t you? Pretending to care, pretending to help. And for what? So you could twist the knife a little deeper?”

Kelly’s head tilts slightly, and her gaze shifts to the doorway. My stomach twists as I follow her line of sight.

“Shae,” Robert says, his voice soft but firm. He’s standing there, his hands shoved into his pockets like he’s just stepped into a casual family reunion. “We need to talk.”

My body goes cold. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

“I knocked,” he says, taking a hesitant step forward. “You didn’t answer.”

“Maybe because I didn’t want to talk to you!” My voice rises, and I can feel the tightrope I’m walking start to fray. “You can’t just barge into my life and act like everything’s fine. It’s not fine. It’s never been fine.”

“I know,” he says, his tone maddeningly calm. “But I want to make it better.”

“Better?” I laugh, the sound brittle and raw. “You think you can waltz in here and fix twenty years of hell with a few apologies? Newsflash, Dad—it doesn’t work that way.”

Robert glances at Kelly, his expression flickering with something. Recognition? Guilt? Disgust at the state of her face?“She doesn’t look well⁠—”

I bristle. “Don’t change the subject.”

He nods, his jaw tightening. “Okay. Let’s talk about it. Let’s talk about Sophie.”

The name is a gunshot, reverberating through me with violent force. My knees almost give out, but I steady myself against the edge of Kelly’s bed. Her eye is on me now, wide and watchful, and I hate the pity I see there.

“You don’t get to say her name,” I hiss, my voice shaking. “You don’t deserve to.”

“I loved her too, Shae,” he says, his voice cracking. “I know I wasn’t a good father. I know I failed you both. But losing Sophie… it broke me.”

“Don’t,” I snap, my hands curling into fists. “Don’t you dare make this about you.”

“I’m not,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m trying to explain. I was a mess back then, I know that. I drank too much, I was angry all the time, and I took it out on you and your sister. I’ve spent every day since hating myself for it.”

“Good,” I spit. “You should.”

He flinches, but he doesn’t back down. “I’ve changed, Shae. I’ve been sober–I’ve gone to therapy, I’ve made amends where I can. I want to make amends with you.”

“You think you can just erase everything you did? The yelling, the hitting, the nights you left us alone with nothing to eat? The closet?” My voice breaks on the last word, and I hate myself for the weakness.

“I can’t erase it,” he says, his voice heavy with regret. “But I can try to make it right.”

Kelly makes a noise then, a low, guttural sound that pulls both of our gazes to her. She’s trying to move her hand, her fingers twitching weakly. Her eye darts between us, I can see the desperation lingering there.

“She’s trying to say something,” Robert says, stepping closer.

“Don’t,” I warn, my voice sharp. “Don’t you dare touch her.”

“She’s suffering, Shae,” he says, his tone pleading. “Can’t you see that?”

“Oh, I see it,” I say, my lips curling into a cruel smile. “I see it every day. And you know what? She deserves it.”

My dad stares at me, his expression a mix of horror and disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

I laugh, the sound bitter and hollow. “You think she’s innocent in all this? She abandoned me, just like you did. She walked away and left me to pick up the pieces. She’s no better than you.”

“She’s your patient,” he says, his voice rising. “She’s helpless. Whatever she did, this isn’t the way to handle it.”

“Don’t tell me how to handle anything,” I snap, stepping between him and the bed. “You lost that right a long time ago.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to argue. But then he takes a step back, his shoulders slumping. “I don’t know what’s happened to you, Shae, but this isn’t who you are.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about who I am,” I say, my voice dripping with venom. “You never did.”

He nods slowly, his gaze heavy with something that looks like sorrow. “Maybe not. But I want to. I want to know you, Shae. The real you.”

His words hit me harder than I want to admit, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. I want to scream at him, to throw him out and lock the door behind him. But instead, I stand there, trembling, as the storm inside me threatens to tear me apart.

“Bullshit–” I finally seethe. “You were my first broken heart–Dad–the first man to use me and discard me–the first man that taught me that love is weakness, that people will always leave.”

Kelly makes another noise, louder this time, and his gaze snaps to her. “She needs help,” he ignores my admission, his voice remaining firm. “Real help.”

“She’s fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m taking care of her.”

“This isn’t care,” he says, his eyes boring into mine. “This is vengeance.”

The word slices through me, raw and unrelenting. I want to deny it, to lash out, but the truth of it clings to me like a second skin.

“I think you should leave,” I say finally, my voice trembling.

“I’m not leaving you like this,” he says, his voice soft but resolute. “Not again. I’m not giving up on you.”

“There’s nothing left to save,” I say, my voice cold.

He looks at me for a long moment, his expression heavy with regret. I hate the pity I see there. I hate her. I hate him. I hate myself.

I sink into the chair by her bed, my head in my hands, as the weight of everything crashes down around me. The rage, the pain, the regret—it’s too much, too loud, too suffocating.

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself cry.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“You killed her, Shae. You killed Sophie.”

Dad’s voice isn’t loud. He doesn’t shout or accuse. It’s worse than that. It’s matter-of-fact, like recounting the weather. And it’s slicing through me, the weight of it so immense I can barely stand.

I stare at him, waiting for the punchline, the twisted joke. But it doesn’t come. His eyes, shadowed and wet, hold mine. There’s no triumph, no malice—just pain. The truth has been rotting inside him for years, and now it’s here, festering between us.

I laugh. It’s not a good laugh. It’s the laugh of someone trying to plug a dam with duct tape, knowing full well it’s going to blow. “That’s... wow. You’ve really outdone yourself, Dad. Of all the garbage excuses you could make for being a failure, you pick this?”

“You don’t remember, do you?” His voice is soft, trembling, like he’s more afraid of my response than I am of his accusation.

“No, I don’t,” I snap. “Because it didn’t happen.”

Dad steps closer, his hands open and empty. “It did.”

“Get out,” I say, my voice shaking.

“Sophie loved you so much, Shae,” he says, ignoring me. “Even after everything. Even when you⁠—”

“Stop!” I scream, my throat raw.

The sound jolts him, and for a second, I think he might listen. But then his gaze hardens, and he presses on. “That night at the pier. You two were fighting⁠—”

“Stop.”

“She was trying to calm you down⁠—”

“Shut up.”

“But you⁠—”

“I didn’t touch her!” The words explode out of me, the sheer volume bouncing off the walls. My chest heaves, my hands trembling. “I didn’t touch her, okay? She slipped. She fell. It was an accident.”

There’s silence. Dead silence.

But his eyes—they’re killing me. I hate those eyes. The same color as mine. The same shape. The same goddamn ability to see straight through me.

“It wasn’t an accident,” he says quietly. “You were angry. You pushed her. I found you there. Do you remember? You were standing at the edge of the pier, just staring down at her.”

“No.” I shake my head, but my voice is smaller now, brittle. “No, you’re lying.”

“You were screaming her name,” he continues. “You kept saying you didn’t mean to. You said you just wanted her to stop⁠—”

“Stop it!” My fists clench so tightly my nails dig into my palms. The pain is sharp, grounding.

“You’ve blocked it out,” he says. “And I let you. I thought... maybe it was better that way. You were so young, and I couldn’t stand losing both of you.”

“I didn’t push her,” I whisper, more to myself than him. “I didn’t.”

The memories are a blur, a smear of sound and color. The ice cream parlor. Sophie’s stupid laugh. The way she always smiled, even when I didn’t deserve it. The pier, the water, the fight...

The fight.

It comes back in shards, each one stabbing deeper than the last. Sophie’s voice, soft and pleading, trying to calm me down. My own voice, sharp and venomous, hurling words I can’t take back.

She was so perfect. So goddamn perfect. And I hated her for it.

“Shae,” Robert says, his voice pulling me back. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I just... you need to know the truth.”

“No,” I whisper. “I don’t.”

But it’s too late. The memories are unrelenting now, a tidal wave I can’t outrun.

The wharf was quiet that night, the sound of the waves crashing against the pylons the only thing breaking the silence. I remember stomping down the worn wooden planks, my breath coming in furious bursts. I’d just finished my shift at the parlor, sticky with sweat and the smell of artificial vanilla, and Sophie had been waiting for me. She always waited for me.

“Shae, wait!” she called, her sneakers slapping against the wood as she ran to catch up.

“What do you want?” I snapped, not bothering to look at her.

“I just want to talk,” she said, her voice annoyingly calm. She always had this way of making me feel like I was the crazy one.

“Talk about what?” I spun around, glaring at her. “How you’re perfect and I’m not? How everyone loves you and tolerates me? Is that what you want to talk about?”

Her face crumpled, and I hated how much satisfaction that gave me.

“That’s not true,” she said. “I love you, Shae. You’re my sister.”

“Don’t,” I said, pointing a finger at her. “Don’t pull that we’re family crap. I see right through you, Sophie. You think you’re better than me.”

“I don’t think that,” she said softly. “I just want you to be happy.”

“Happy?” I laughed, the sound bitter and sharp. “I’ll be happy when you stop pretending to care.”

“I do care,” she insisted. “That’s why I’m here. I want to help you.”

“You can’t help me! You’re thirteen—you don’t get it!” I screamed, the words echoing into the night. “You can’t fix me, Sophie! Stop trying!”

Her eyes filled with tears, and something inside me snapped. I didn’t want her pity. I didn’t want her kindness. I wanted her to hurt like I did.

I don’t remember making the decision. One second we were standing there, and the next I was shoving her. Hard.

Her eyes widened, and she stumbled back. Her arms flailed, trying to find something to grab onto, but there was nothing but air. And then she was gone, disappearing over the edge of the pier.

The splash was deafening, louder than it should have been.

I ran to the edge, my heart hammering in my chest. “Sophie!” I screamed, my voice cracking.

She didn’t respond.

The water was shallow that year. I remember that now. The tide was low, and the rocks beneath the pier were jagged and unforgiving.

I stood there, frozen, staring down at her still body. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

And then there were sirens. Red and blue lights flashing in the distance. Someone must have heard us fighting, must have called the police.

I don’t remember much after that. Just fragments. Dad pulling me away from the edge, his hands gripping my shoulders so tightly it hurt. The paramedics. The questions. The lies I told to protect myself.

The room spins as I come back to the present, my breath hitching in my chest. I look at Dad, his face blurred through my tears, and I feel like I’m drowning all over again.

“You knew,” I whisper. “You knew, and you didn’t say anything.”

“I thought I was protecting you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “You were just a kid, Shae. You didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“I killed her,” I say, the words tasting like ash. “I killed Sophie.”

Kelly makes a sound, a low, guttural moan, and I whip around to face her. Her eye is wide, her face contorted with an emotion I can’t decipher.

“What?” I snap. “What do you have to say, Kelly? Huh? You think this is my fault? You think I’m the monster?”

She blinks, her gaze flicking to Robert and then back to me.

“Of course you do,” I say, my voice rising. “You’ve always thought I was the problem. That’s why you left, isn’t it? That’s why you and Kelly worked together while she was my therapist. Because you couldn’t deal with me.”

“That’s not true,” Dad says.

“Oh, shut up!” I scream, spinning back to face him. “You don’t get to defend her. You don’t get to defend anyone. You weren’t there. You don’t know what it was like.”

“I know I failed you,” he says, his voice breaking. “I know I wasn’t the father you needed. But I’m here now, Shae. I want to help.”

“Help?” I laugh, the sound high and hysterical. “You can’t help me. No one can.”

I collapse into the chair by Kelly’s bed, my head in my hands. The weight of it all is crushing me, suffocating me. Sophie’s face flashes in my mind, her wide smile, her bright eyes. I took that from her. I took everything.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the words barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”

Dad steps closer, his hand resting gently on my shoulder. For once, I don’t pull away.

“I know,” he says softly. “And so does Sophie.”

The words don’t fix anything. They don’t erase what I’ve done or make it hurt any less. But for the first time in a long time, they don’t feel like a lie.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Toby’s barking rips through the tense air like a serrated blade. At first, I ignore it, thinking he’s probably just spotted a squirrel or caught the scent of something rotting in the yard. But it doesn’t stop. It grows louder, more frantic, like an alarm I can’t silence.

“Can you shut that dog up?” Dad snaps, his voice sharp, yanking me out of my spinning thoughts.

I glare at him, my heart still pounding from his accusations. “Oh, I’m sorry, Dad. Is Toby ruining your Hallmark reunion moment?”

He runs a hand through his graying hair, his face twisted in frustration. “This isn’t a joke, Shae. That barking could draw attention.”

“Attention?” I say with a smirk. “Oh no! God forbid someone interrupts your Oscar-worthy performance as a regretful father.”

Toby barks again, louder this time, and I feel a flicker of unease. He’s not usually this persistent. His deep, guttural growls are laced with urgency, the kind that says something’s wrong.

I shoot a glance at Kelly, who’s lying stiff in her bed, her wide, frightened eye darting between Dad and me. Something about her gaze feels... off, like she knows something I don’t. My stomach churns.

“Stay here,” I mutter, my voice tight. I storm toward the door, but Toby’s bark echoes from the back of the house.

Of course. He’s not at the door. He’s in the yard.

I change course, weaving through the cluttered living room to the back slider. The glass rattles as I yank it open, stepping onto the cold concrete patio. Toby stands near the fence, his stocky body rigid, his hackles raised.

“What is it, boy?” I ask, my voice softer now, but he doesn’t even look at me. His focus is locked on something beyond the fence, his barking relentless.

A shiver runs down my spine as I peer over the edge of the yard. The neighboring houses are silent, but the faint sound of a car door slamming somewhere in the distance prickles the back of my neck.

“Get inside,” I hiss at Toby, snapping my fingers, but he ignores me. “Toby, now.”

The sharpness in my voice finally gets through. He hesitates, growling low in his throat before slinking back toward the house. I watch him go, the unease settling deeper into my chest.

Inside, Dad is pacing the living room, his hands on his hips. “What’s going on out there?”

“Probably nothing,” I say, though the words feel hollow. “Just the dog being dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” he scoffs. “You’re telling me you don’t think that dog knows something’s up?”

“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes. “You’re not seriously going to let a bulldog dictate your paranoia.”

But even as I say it, I can’t shake the knot tightening in my stomach. Something feels... off.

I glance at Kelly again, and this time, I notice her fingers. They’re moving—barely—but they’re moving. A tremor of panic races through me as I realize what she’s doing. Her hand is creeping toward my phone, which I left too close to her bed.

“Kelly,” I snap, striding across the room. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Her eye widens, but she doesn’t stop. Her fingers fumble, brushing against the edge of the phone.

“Oh no, no, no.” I snatch it up, holding it out of her reach. “Nice try, Mom, but you’re not pulling that one on me.”

Robert watches the exchange, his face etched with confusion. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I say, shoving the phone into my back pocket. “Kelly’s just feeling... creative.”

Kelly moans softly, her face contorted in frustration. Her helplessness usually brings me a twisted sense of satisfaction, but right now, it only fuels my growing sense of dread.

Toby barks again, this time from inside the house. He’s standing near the front door now, his growls low and steady.

“Shae,” Robert says, his voice tight. “Something’s not right.”

“Wow, your detective skills are really kicking in, huh?” I snap, but my bravado feels forced. I stride toward the front door, pulling it open just enough to peek outside.

The street is eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that feels too deliberate. My eyes scan the neighboring houses, the shadows stretching across the pavement. And then I see it: a figure standing at the edge of the driveway, partially obscured by the shrubs.

My breath catches in my throat.

The figure steps forward, and I recognize them—the neighbor, Mrs. Hathaway, the nosy retiree who spends more time peeking through her curtains than actually living her life. She’s holding her phone, her face pinched with concern.

“Hon?” She calls out hesitantly. “Is everything okay in there? I heard... noises.”

“Everything’s fine,” I say, my voice clipped. “Toby just got a little excited.”

Her eyes narrow, her grip tightening on her phone. “Are you sure? I thought I heard someone yelling.”

I force a smile, though it feels more like a grimace. “Just a little family disagreement. Nothing to worry about.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “Maybe I should⁠—”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Hathaway,” I say firmly, shutting the door before she can finish.

I lean against the door, my heart pounding as I try to steady my breathing. This is bad. Really bad. If she calls the police⁠—

A knock jolts me, and I nearly jump out of my skin. It’s not the front door this time. It’s coming from the back.

“What the hell is going on?” Robert demands, his voice sharp with panic.

“Shut up,” I snap, holding up a hand. I creep toward the back slider, my pulse thundering in my ears.

Through the glass, I see them—two uniformed officers standing just outside the yard, their flashlights cutting through the darkness.

My mind races. Mrs. Hathaway must have called them. She heard the barking, the yelling, and now they’re here.

“Stay here,” I hiss at my dad, “and you keep your mouth shut. You owe me that.”

Before he can respond, I open the slider just enough to step outside, shutting it behind me.

The officers look up as I approach, their expressions cautious but professional.

“Good evening, ma’am,” one of them says, his flashlight lowering. “Sorry to bother you, but we got a call from a neighbor. They said they heard some loud noises and were concerned.”

I force a smile, though my palms are sweating. “Oh, that. Yeah, my dog got a little worked up, and we had some family over earlier. Things got a bit noisy, but it’s all fine now.”

The second officer studies me, his eyes sharp. “Mind if we take a look around? Just to be sure everything’s okay.”

My heart skips a beat. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” I say, my voice tighter than I’d like. “Like I said, everything’s fine.”

The first officer exchanges a glance with his partner. “It won’t take long. Just a quick check.”

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms. This is spiraling out of control.

“Of course,” I say, forcing another smile. “Come on in.”

I lead them back toward the house, my mind racing. I need to control this. I need to fix this before they see too much. I say a quick prayer of thanks for having the foresight to drop Taylor’s Jeep off at the park-and-ride lot and then walk back to the condo–now I just have to hope they don’t search Kelly’s closet and discover his pathetic, traitorous, lifeless body.

Inside, Robert is standing near the couch, his face pale and his hands trembling. Kelly is motionless in her bed, her gaze wide and filled with terror.

“Evening, folks,” one of the officers says as they step inside. “Just doing a quick welfare check.”

Robert doesn’t respond, his gaze darting between me and the officers.

I step in front of him, blocking their view of Kelly. “As you can see, everything’s fine. My dad was just visiting, and my mom’s... not feeling well. But we’re all fine.”

The second officer’s gaze lingers on Kelly, his brow furrowing. “Is she okay? She looks...”

“She’s recovering from surgery,” I say quickly. “She’s sedated most of the time, which is probably why she looks like that.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “Mind if we ask her a few questions?”

“She’s nonverbal,” I say, my tone firm. “She won’t be able to answer.”

The first officer steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he studies Kelly. “Sedated, you said?”

My chest tightens. “Yes.”

“And she’s being cared for properly? Medications, food, all that?”

“Of course,” I say, my voice sharper now. “I’m her caregiver. Everything is under control.”

The second officer looks at me, his expression unreadable. “You mind if we take a look around? Just to be thorough.”

My blood turns to ice. “I don’t think that’s necessary⁠—”

“It’s just procedure,” he says, cutting me off.

I swallow hard, my mind racing. I can’t let them snoop around. They’ll find something. They always do.

“Sure,” I say, my voice tight. “Be my guest.”

I step aside, watching as they begin to move through the house. My hands are trembling, my heart racing as I try to keep calm.

Robert catches my eye, his expression filled with panic. I shake my head subtly, warning him to stay quiet.

The officers move methodically, their flashlights cutting through the dimly lit rooms. I follow them closely, my stomach churning with each step. I’m praying Toby doesn’t alert them to Taylor’s decaying body in the locked closet. He’s already proved himself a traitor—I can’t trust this dog like I thought.

Finally, they return to the living room, their expressions unreadable.

“Well, everything seems to be in order,” the first officer says, though his tone is cautious. “But if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Of course,” I say, forcing another smile. “Thank you for checking in.”

They nod, their eyes lingering on me for a moment before they head toward the door.

As soon as they’re gone, I collapse onto the couch, my head in my hands. My entire body is shaking, my mind spinning with what-ifs and could-have-beens.

Robert is still standing there, his face pale and his hands trembling. “What the hell just happened?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My mind is too consumed with the realization that I’m running out of time.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Ipace the living room, the carpet wearing thin beneath my feet as my thoughts spiral into a chaotic blur. Toby watches me from his perch by the couch, his head tilted, his usually wrinkled face now one of cautious concern. Even the dog knows I’m unraveling.

Kelly’s rasping breaths echo from her room, punctuated by the occasional wheeze that sounds like she’s choking on her own existence. It’s a cruel symphony, one I’ve orchestrated, and yet it grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Every sound she makes reminds me of what she’s done—what she hasn’t done.

What I’ve done.

And then there’s dear old Dad. He sits stiffly in the armchair, his elbows resting on his knees, his face a mask of regret. His presence is like poison in the air, suffocating and corrosive. The man who was supposed to protect me. The man who abandoned me, who let Sophie die, who turned me into… this.

“You broke me,” I say, my voice low and venomous as I whirl to face him. My fingers curl into fists, and I have to fight the urge to throw something. “Do you get that? You shattered me, and then you left me to sweep up the pieces.”

Robert flinches, his jaw tightening. “I know I failed you, Shae.”

“Failed?” I bark out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and jagged. “Failed doesn’t even begin to cover it. You didn’t just fail. You destroyed me. You destroyed us. And now you’re doing it again.”

His eyes glisten with unshed tears, and for a brief moment, I see the shadow of the man he could have been. The man who might have loved me, protected me. But that shadow is meaningless now.

“I thought I was doing what was best,” he says quietly, his voice trembling. “I thought leaving would⁠—”

“Don’t you dare,” I snap, cutting him off. “Don’t you dare try to spin this into some noble sacrifice. You didn’t leave for us. You left for yourself. You left because you couldn’t handle the mess you made.”

His head drops, and he stares at the floor like a chastised child. It’s pathetic, really. My father, reduced to this.

“I nearly died of a broken heart,” I whisper, my voice cracking as tears sting my eyes.

The words hang in the air, heavy and raw, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. I see his shoulders shake, and I realize he’s crying. Good. He should cry. He should feel every ounce of the pain he inflicted on me.

“Shae,” he croaks, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to make it right.”

“You can’t,” I say, my voice ice-cold now. “There’s no fixing this. There’s no making it right.”

His gaze snaps up to mine, desperation etched into every line of his face. “But I want to try. I want to be here for you now.”

I laugh again, a harsh, derisive sound. “Now? Now, when it’s too late? You’re twenty years too late, Dad.”

The room feels suffocating, the walls closing in as my rage bubbles over. I stride toward him, my fists clenched at my sides. “Do you know what it’s like to grow up without love? To watch your sister die and know it’s your fault?”

He looks up at me, startled. “Your fault? Shae, you were just a kid, you were mentally ill, it wasn’t⁠—”

“Shut up!” I scream, the sound ripping through the room. “Don’t you dare try to absolve me. I killed her. I killed Sophie, and I’ve been paying for it every single day since.”

Dad recoils as if I’ve struck him, his face pale and stricken. “I didn’t know,” he whispers. “I didn’t know you⁠—”

“Of course, you didn’t know,” I snap, my voice trembling. “You weren’t there. You were never there.”

I turn away from him, my chest heaving as I struggle to catch my breath. My gaze falls on Kelly, her wide, terrified eye locked on me. The sight of her, helpless and broken, ignites a fresh wave of rage.

“And you,” I hiss, stalking toward her bed. “You’re just as guilty. You left me. You abandoned us. You pretended to be my therapist, like that would somehow make up for everything.”

Kelly’s lips move, but no sound comes out. She’s trying to say something, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing she says matters.

I grab the edge of her bed, shaking it violently. “Say it! Admit it! Tell me you’re the monster I know you are!”

“Shae, stop!” Dad’s voice is sharp, panicked, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything anymore.

I whirl around to face him, my chest heaving. “Do you want to see what I’ve become? Do you want to see the monster you created?”

He takes a hesitant step toward me, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Shae, please. You don’t have to do this. We can figure this out together.”

“Together?” I laugh, the sound manic and unhinged. “There is no together, Dad. There never was.”

I take a step closer to him, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Maybe I should make you watch. Maybe I should make you watch me kill her. Your first love. The mother of your children.”

His eyes widen in horror, and he shakes his head. “No. Please, Shae. Don’t do this.”

But I don’t stop. I can’t stop. My rage is a tidal wave, drowning everything in its path. “You don’t deserve forgiveness. You don’t deserve closure. You deserve to suffer, just like I’ve suffered.”

Tears stream down my face, and I’m laughing and crying all at once. The sound is foreign, alien, like it’s coming from someone else.

“I trusted you,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I trusted you to love me, to protect me, and you failed. You both failed.”

Robert reaches out, his hand trembling as it hovers near my arm. “I’m sorry, Shae. I’m so sorry.”

The words are a dagger to my chest, and for a moment, I falter. For a moment, I feel the weight of my own pain, my own guilt.

But then I remember Sophie. I remember her lifeless body in the water, the sound of the sirens, the look of devastation on my father’s face. I remember the lies, the betrayals, the years of abandonment.

I step back, my resolve hardening. “Sorry isn’t enough,” I say, my voice cold and final. “Sorry doesn’t fix anything.”

Robert’s face crumples, and he drops to his knees, his head bowed. He’s a broken man, but I don’t feel satisfaction. I feel nothing.

Kelly moans softly, her voice a weak, pitiful sound. I turn to her, my expression hard. “And you. You don’t get to manipulate me anymore. You don’t get to play the victim.”

I grab the syringe from the bedside table, the one filled with a paralytic. I hold it up, letting the light catch the liquid inside. “Maybe it’s time to end this. For all of us.”

Robert scrambles to his feet, his face a mask of panic. “No! Shae, please. Don’t do this.”

“Why not?” I ask, my voice cold. “What’s left to save?”

He takes a step closer, his eyes pleading. “You. You’re worth saving.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. Tears blur my vision as I stare at him, my hands trembling.

“Don’t lie to me,” I whisper, my voice broken. “Don’t tell me I’m worth saving when you left me to rot.”

“I’m here now,” he says, his voice trembling with emotion. “I’m here, and I’m not leaving.”

The sincerity in his voice cuts through my rage, and for the first time in years, I feel the faintest glimmer of hope. But it’s fleeting, a fragile thing crushed beneath the weight of my pain.

I shake my head, the syringe still in my hand. “It’s too late. It’s always been too late.”

Robert steps closer, his hands outstretched. “It’s never too late, Shae. Please. Let me help you.”

The sound of sirens in the distance jolts me back to reality, and I realize with a sinking feeling that the neighbor must have called the police again. Panic sets in, and I glance between Robert and Kelly, my mind racing.

He hesitates, his eyes filled with anguish. “Shae⁠—”

“Get down!” I scream, yanking his fragile arm behind his back and hauling him to the closet where Taylor is hidden.

He stumbles but doesn’t resist, his face pale as he stares at me one last time. “I love you, Shae.”

The words cut deeper than any blade, but I don’t let them show.

“Sure you do,” I huff as I make quick work of tying him to Taylor’s arm with a cord from the blinds, then silence him with duct tape around his mouth.

As the sirens grow louder, I collapse to the floor, the syringe slipping from my hand. Tears stream down my face, and for the first time in years, I let myself feel the weight of my own pain.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Toby barks incessantly, his guttural woofs reverberating off the condo walls, a frantic counterpoint to the chaos in my chest. I stand over Kelly, her frail body barely moving, her stare darting from me to the ceiling as if begging for divine intervention.

But there’s no salvation here.

My fingers tighten around the silk scarf I’ve looped around her neck. It’s a beautiful piece—her favorite, or so I’ve told myself. Navy blue with delicate silver stitching. I figured it was poetic, strangling her with something she likely once admired. Poetic justice. An absentee mother turned therapist turned living nightmare.

Behind me, Robert struggles against the ropes binding him to Taylor’s lifeless body. The two of them make quite the tableau, like something out of a grim Renaissance painting. Taylor’s head lolls to one side, his eyes frozen in a glassy stare, while Robert groans like the pathetic excuse for a father he’s always been.

“I have to do this,” I say to myself. “It feels like I’ve spent my entire life having to do things. Starving as a kid because you were too drunk to remember we existed. Watching Sophie’s body get pulled from the water because I didn’t want to be the bad guy who tattled. Cleaning up after every mess you and Kelly left behind. I have to do this.”

The sirens are deafening now, their wails bouncing off the street outside. Lights flicker through the blinds—red and blue, red and blue—painting the room in a garish, pulsating glow. Toby’s barking crescendos, and my heart pounds with a wild, erratic rhythm.

It’s all unraveling. My perfectly crafted web of control is falling apart, strand by strand, and I don’t know if I should laugh, cry, or burn the whole house down.

I turn back to Kelly, who’s making feeble attempts to move her lips. Maybe she’s trying to plead for her life, but all that comes out are pathetic gurgles. The scarf trembles in my hands as I lift it, positioning it under her jaw.

“Any last words, Mom?” I sneer, leaning close enough to see the fear etched into her ruined face. “Oh, wait—you can’t talk. Convenient, isn’t it? After years of making me spill my soul to you in therapy, you finally have nothing to say.”

Her eye widens, and for a split second, I hesitate. Not out of guilt—I’ve long since numbed myself to that—but out of something more insidious. Satisfaction. She’s terrified of me. She should be.

The front door bursts open, the sound like a gunshot in the tension-filled room. I freeze, scarf still taut in my hands, and whirl toward the commotion.

“FBI! Hands in the air!” A man’s voice booms through the space, commanding, unyielding.

Two plain-clothes agents storm in, guns drawn, their gazes flicking between me, Kelly, and the grotesque scene in the corner where Robert and Taylor sit bound together like unwilling partners in a macabre dance. Toby bolts toward them, barking furiously, and one of the officers shouts for him to stay back.

I drop the scarf and throw my hands up, my mind racing for an exit strategy. “This isn’t what it looks like!” I blurt, my voice high-pitched, frantic. “I’m trying to save her! She—she’s choking, and I⁠—”

“Step away from the bed!” one agent barks, his gun trained on me. His partner moves toward Robert, cutting the ropes with a swift motion and pulling him to his feet.

Robert gasps as the duct tape is removed, clutching his side as he’s freed. “She was going to kill her!”

“Shut up!” I snap, my composure cracking as I point a trembling finger at him. “You don’t know anything, you worthless piece of⁠—”

“Enough!” The officer steps closer, his tone brooking no argument. “Ma’am, you’re under arrest. Turn around and put your hands behind your head.”

My mind races, adrenaline pumping through my veins as I weigh my options. Fight? Flee? Beg for mercy? None of them seem viable, not with two guns pointed at me and my carefully constructed world crumbling around me.

“You don’t understand,” I say, my voice shaking but still laced with defiance. “She deserved this. They all deserved this.”

“Turn around,” the agent repeats, his patience clearly wearing thin. I take a step back, my heels bumping against the edge of Kelly’s bed. She moans softly, her eye fluttering shut as if she’s already resigned herself to whatever comes next.

Traitor.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I hiss, my voice low and dangerous. “Not until you hear me out.”

“Ma’am, this is your last warning. Turn around or we’ll have to⁠—”

Before he can finish, I lunge for the nightstand, grabbing the syringe I’d prepared for Kelly. It’s my last-ditch effort, my final play in a game I’ve already lost. I whirl around, brandishing it like a weapon, my eyes wild.

“Stay back!” I scream, the needle shaking in my grip. “I’ll use it!”

“Drop the syringe!” the officer shouts, his gun now trained squarely on my chest. His partner moves to the side, flanking me, their coordinated movements like a predator circling its prey.

“Shae, please,” Robert says, his voice trembling. “Don’t do this.”

“Shut up!” I scream again, my voice cracking under the weight of my own desperation. “You don’t get to talk. None of you get to talk!”

Toby barks wildly, darting between me and the officers, his small body vibrating with panic. The room is a cacophony of noise—shouts, barks, the distant hum of the sirens still wailing outside. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

“I just wanted peace,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the chaos. “I just wanted to make it all stop.”

One of the agents takes a cautious step forward, his hands outstretched in a placating gesture. “We can help you, Shae,” he says, his tone calm but firm. “Put the syringe down, and we’ll talk. We’ll figure this out together.”

I laugh bitterly, the sound hollow and broken. “Figure this out? You think you can fix this? You think you can fix me?”

The officer doesn’t respond, his expression unreadable. He takes another step, and I tighten my grip on the syringe, my knuckles white.

“I’m not broken,” I say, more to myself than to anyone else. “I’m not.”

But the words feel like a lie, even as they leave my lips.

Before I can react, the second officer lunges, grabbing my wrist and twisting it with practiced precision. The syringe clatters to the floor, and I let out a strangled cry as he pulls my arms behind my back, the cold metal of handcuffs snapping around my wrists. “We’ve been looking for you for a while, Shae Halston.”

“No!” I scream, thrashing against his grip. “You don’t understand! She’s the monster, not me!”

The officers ignore my protests, dragging me toward the door as Robert collapses onto the couch, his face pale and stricken. Kelly lies motionless in her bed, her eye half-closed, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Toby follows us to the door, his barks now quiet whimpers as he watches me being taken away. I meet his eyes, and for a brief moment, I see something that looks like pity.

As the officers shove me into the back of the squad car, the weight of everything crashes down on me. My revenge. My pain. My lies. It was all for nothing.

I stare out the window as the car pulls away, the condo growing smaller in the distance. The lights fade, the sirens quiet, and all that’s left is the sound of my own ragged breathing.

I feel truly alone.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Ipace the cramped holding cell of the Pismo Beach police station, my bare feet cold against the cement floor. The metallic taste of defeat sits heavy on my tongue. My hands ache where the cuffs dug into them, and my reflection in the glass panel of the door taunts me. My hair is wild, my makeup smeared—an image of someone who has lost everything.

Not everything.

I cling to that thought like a lifeline. After the two weeks we spent together trapped in that condo, Kelly is still alive. Barely. That means I can fix this. I can still find a way to make her pay, to regain control. She survived, but it’s temporary. I just need time.

But time isn’t on my side anymore.

Kelly has refused to talk to me despite the fact that I’ve tried to send her letters via my lawyer. I can’t say I blame her, I guess. I’d be afraid of me too.

The door swings open, and a young officer—barely old enough to shave, by the look of him—steps inside. His expression is cautious, almost pitying, and it makes me want to scratch his eyes out.

“Ms. Halston,” he begins, voice steady but thin. “The detectives will be here shortly. They have questions.”

I snort, leaning against the wall. “Questions? I’m sure they do. They probably want to know why a sweet little thing like me has had such a rough time.” I flash him a smile, but it feels hollow. “What’s your name, Officer Babyface?”

He doesn’t take the bait, his eyes darting to the clipboard in his hands. “You have the right to remain silent, Ms. Halston. I suggest you use it.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’ve spent the last twenty years talking to someone who pretended to care about me. Silence doesn’t suit me.”

His jaw tightens, and he steps back, the door clicking shut behind him. Alone again, my thoughts spiral like a tornado. Kelly’s face, twisted and gasping for air. Robert, his eyes wet with pathetic remorse. Toby’s barking, incessant and useless.

And then there’s the memory of Kelly’s voice—faint but there—breaking through her paralysis to whisper my name.

I underestimated her.

I close my eyes, trying to replay the last moments before it all fell apart. The police storming in. Robert, groveling, begging them to help. My phone, clutched in her gnarled fingers, a lifeline she’d somehow managed to use despite her near-vegetative state. The officers said she’d contacted Robert before I even realized she could still think, still fight. She was the one that told him where to find me–not those pathetic bitches at brunch like I’d thought.

Manipulative bitch. She played me like a fiddle. And when he arrived he was just buying time for the Feds to arrive, stringing me along with his talk of regrets and the past.

I slam my fist against the wall, the pain grounding me for a moment. I should’ve killed her the moment I walked into that condo. No games, no drawn-out torture—just a pillow over her face, quick and clean. But no. I had to savor it, had to make her suffer the way I did. And now look where it got me.

The door opens again, this time revealing two detectives. A woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor leads the way, followed by a man whose tired face looks like it’s been through one too many interrogations.

“Ms. Halston,” the woman says, taking a seat across from me. “I’m Agent Carter. This is Agent Morales.”

“Agents.” I nod, sinking into the chair opposite them. “How formal. I feel so special.”

Carter doesn’t react, her pen poised over a notepad. “We’ve spoken to Kelly Fraser—your mother.”

I stiffen, the words slicing through me like a blade. “She’s not my mother.”

“She disagrees.” Carter meets my gaze, her eyes hard. “She’s told us a lot about you. About your childhood. Your time in therapy with her. She’s also provided evidence—journals, documents—proving her relationship to you.”

My laugh is sharp, bitter. “Oh, she’s spinning a lovely little story, isn’t she? What’s her angle? Sympathy? Redemption? I didn’t peg her as the religious type, but maybe she’s hoping for a deathbed miracle.”

“She’s alive,” Morales says, his voice softer but no less firm. “Barely, but she’s alive. She wants to see you get help, Ms. Halston.”

“Help?” I lean back, crossing my arms. “That’s rich. She had twenty years to help me, and what did she do? Lie. Manipulate. Abandon me. And now you think I’m the villain?”

“You’ve admitted to torturing her,” Carter says bluntly. “You impersonated her, killed Brianna, tortured Isaac, and then when Agent Taylor Newsome didn’t call for his nightly check-in⁠—”

“Allegedly,” I interrupt, my lips curling into a smirk. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” It dawns on me then that Taylor was working with them. I fell in love with and then killed a federal agent.

Agent Morales leans forward, his tired eyes locking onto mine. “We have evidence. Witnesses. Security footage of the two of you together before Brianna vanished and then when her body was found in the bay with evidence of being weighted down by an anchor—well, we just needed time to gather the evidence against you. Taylor was more than willing to help and then Kelly reached out to Robert, told him she feared for her life. She sent him recordings of your sessions, notes about your behavior and the hospital visit—she volunteered to be the bait to catch you⁠—”

“She betrayed me,” I snap, the anger bubbling to the surface. “She deserved everything she got.”

“And Brianna?” Carter presses. “Did she deserve it too? And Isaac?”

“Brianna was a parasite,” I spit. “And Isaac? He got what he earned. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be used, discarded, tossed aside like garbage? They didn’t care about me. None of them did.”

“And Kelly?” Carter’s voice softens, but it’s no less cutting. “What about her? Why did you hate her so much?”

“She ruined my life,” I hiss, my nails digging into my palms. “She pretended to care. She lied about who she was. She let me rot in that house with Robert, knowing what he was, knowing what he did to me and Sophie.”

“Sophie.” Morales says her name like a weapon, and it lands. Hard.

My vision blurs, the memories crashing down like a tidal wave. Sophie on the pier, her smile so bright it hurt to look at. The argument. The push. The water swallowing her up, leaving nothing but silence and guilt.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Carter leans in, her eyes narrowing. “But you did.”

The room feels too small, the walls closing in as their questions pierce through my defenses. My mind spins, grasping for control, but it’s gone. They’ve stripped me bare, laid me out like a specimen under a microscope.

“She was perfect,” I say, my voice breaking. “Sophie was everything I wasn’t. And she knew it. Everyone knew it. I just… I wanted her to understand what it felt like. To be invisible. To be nothing.”

“And Kelly?” Morales asks. “Did you want her to feel that too?”

I swallow hard, the weight of their questions pressing down on me. “Kelly made me nothing.”

“Kelly was helping us—she knew you’d come for her, that’s why she was released. She knew you couldn’t resist the temptation for revenge. You visited her in the hospital at one point—she was aware it was you.”

I grit my teeth. It was all a setup. Fucking bitch. Of course she tried to one-up me. “I hate her. I always have. She left me with him, with Robert, knowing he was a monster. She had a chance to save me, and she didn’t.”

“But Robert says he didn’t know,” Carter says, her pen stilling. “He claims he didn’t know where Kelly was or how to reach her.”

“Of course he didn’t,” I snap. “Because she ran. She ran and never looked back.”

“And you’ve been running ever since,” Morales says softly.

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. I look away, my gaze fixed on the flickering light above us. “Maybe I have.”

Carter closes her notebook, her expression unreadable. “We’re done here for now. You’ll be transferred to county in the morning. Get some rest.”

As they stand and leave, the door clicking shut behind them, I’m left alone with the silence. It’s deafening, pressing in on me from all sides. Toby’s not here. Kelly’s not here. No one is here.

I feel empty.

Maybe this is what I deserve.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The fluorescent lights buzz incessantly above me, a high-pitched whine that feels like a mosquito trapped inside my skull. The air here is cold, sterile, and faintly smells of bleach and despair. The psychiatric ward of the maximum-security prison is nothing like I imagined. I thought it would be chaos—screaming, fights, wild eyes staring at you from the corners. Instead, it’s the silence that unnerves me most.

I sit on the edge of my cot, the thin mattress offering as much comfort as a slab of concrete. My reflection stares back at me from the polished steel mirror bolted to the wall. Pale, haggard, eyes ringed with exhaustion. I look like someone who hasn’t slept in years, which, to be fair, I haven’t. Not since the trial. Not since I saw Dean’s smug face in the courtroom as he testified against me.

The bastard was practically giddy, his self-righteous grin stretching from ear to ear as he painted me as a manipulative monster. Which, fine, maybe I am. But coming from him? Hypocrisy at its finest. Dean, the man who couldn’t keep his hands off other women, who left me to rot in a marriage that was a prison long before this one.

“Your Honor,” he had said, voice dripping with fake sincerity, “Shae is not just dangerous—she’s unwell. I lived with her. I saw her unravel. She’s incapable of remorse, incapable of change. She needs to be somewhere where she can’t hurt anyone else.”

And the jury bought it. Every damn word.

“Danger to society,” the judge had declared. “Life in a maximum security psychiatric facility without the possibility of parole.”

Game over.

“Shae?” A nurse’s voice snaps me back to the present. She’s young, blonde, and annoyingly chipper. Her name tag reads Amanda, but I’ve mentally nicknamed her Miss Sunshine. She leans into the doorway, clipboard in hand, a cautious smile on her face. “It’s time for your session.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, goody. Another hour of being told how broken I am. Can’t wait.”

She doesn’t respond, just steps aside to let the orderly in. He’s a brick wall of a man, built like a linebacker, his face a permanent scowl. They don’t take chances with me. I’m always escorted, always under watch. Like I’m going to claw my way through the halls with a toothbrush shiv and escape into the wild.

“Let’s go,” Brick Wall grunts.

I stand, hands cuffed in front of me, and follow them down the hall. The fluorescent lights flicker as we walk, casting distorted shadows on the walls. Other inmates peer through their small, reinforced windows as we pass. Some stare blankly, others grin like feral animals. One man whispers my name, his voice low and raspy, sending a shiver down my spine.

Finally, we reach the therapy room. It’s small, with pale green walls and a single table bolted to the floor. Dr. Monroe sits on one side, her pen poised over a yellow legal pad. She’s in her forties, sharp-featured, with glasses that perch on the edge of her nose. She’s the type who thinks she can fix me. Spoiler alert: she can’t.

“Shae,” she says, gesturing for me to sit. “How are you feeling today?”

I plop down in the chair, the cuffs clinking against the table. “Oh, you know. Living the dream. How about you, Doc? Still pretending you can save people like me?”

Her lips press into a thin line. “Why don’t we start with the trial? That seemed to have a significant impact on you.”

I snort. “Significant? Yeah, I’d say being dragged through the mud in front of a jury was significant. Dean’s performance was a real highlight. Did you know he used to cheat on me with women we hired to represent my brand? And yet I’m the villain.”

“Dean’s testimony wasn’t the only evidence presented,” Dr. Monroe says calmly. “There were recordings, witness statements, forensic evidence⁠—”

“Spare me the recap,” I snap. “I lived it, remember?”

She leans back in her chair, studying me like I’m a puzzle she can solve. “Do you ever think about Kelly?”

My stomach tightens, but I keep my expression neutral. “Why would I? She’s irrelevant now.”

“She survived,” Dr. Monroe points out. “She’s recovering. Does that bother you?”

“Should it?” I tilt my head, feigning indifference. “Good for her. Maybe she can write a memoir. How I Survived My Psychotic Daughter. I’m sure it’ll be a bestseller.”

Monroe doesn’t flinch. She’s good at that—staying composed, refusing to rise to my bait. It’s infuriating.

“Do you ever wonder why you did it?” she asks. “Why you felt the need to hurt her, to control her?”

“Because she deserved it,” I say flatly. “She lied to me, manipulated me, abandoned me. Everything I am, everything I’ve done—it’s her fault.”

“Is that what you truly believe? Or is that what you tell yourself to avoid facing the truth?”

My jaw tightens. “And what truth is that, Dr. Freud?”

“That you’re afraid,” she says softly. “Afraid of being powerless. Of being abandoned again. So you create chaos, control others, to avoid feeling that vulnerability.”

I laugh, but it’s hollow, forced. “Save the psychoanalysis. You’re not going to crack me, Doc.”

She doesn’t respond, just scribbles something on her notepad. The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive, until I can’t take it anymore.

“Fine,” I snap. “You want the truth? Here it is: I don’t regret a damn thing. Not Kelly, not Dean, not Brianna. They all got what they deserved.”

“And Sophie?” Monroe’s voice is a dagger, piercing through my defenses.

I freeze, the air sucked from my lungs. Sophie’s name is a wound that never heals, a ghost that haunts every corner of my mind. I think of the letters in her handwriting—the letters that were never really real. The visions in the mirror, the woman at the cemetery that looked just like her…

“I don’t want to talk about her,” I say, my voice low and dangerous.

“But she’s the reason you’re here, isn’t she?” Monroe presses. “Everything you’ve done, every decision you’ve made—it all traces back to her. To that night.”

“Shut up,” I hiss, my nails digging into the table.

“You blame Kelly for abandoning you,” she continues, relentless. “You blame Dean for betraying you. You blame Isaac and Brianna for using you. But Sophie? She was innocent. She loved you. And you killed her.”

“Shut up!” The words explode from me, raw and venomous. I lunge forward, but the cuffs and the bolted table hold me back. “You don’t know anything about her. About me.”

Monroe doesn’t flinch. “I think I do. I think Sophie was the one person who truly cared for you, and losing her broke you. But instead of grieving, you turned that pain outward, onto everyone else.”

My chest heaves, rage and grief battling for control. “She was perfect,” I whisper, the words barely audible. “And I hated her for it.”

Monroe leans forward, her voice softening. “But you didn’t mean to hurt her, did you? You just wanted her to feel what you felt.”

The dam breaks, and the memories flood in. The pier. The argument. The push. Her body hitting the water, the silence that followed. The guilt that clawed at me, consuming me, until there was nothing left but anger.

“I didn’t mean to,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face. “I just wanted her to stop. To stop being so… perfect.”

Monroe’s expression softens, and for a moment, I see something I haven’t seen in years: compassion. “Shae, you can’t change the past. But you can choose what you do with the future. You can let this go, or you can let it destroy you.”

I look away, my vision blurred by tears. The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. Let it go? How can I let it go when it’s all I have left?

The session ends, and I’m escorted back to my cell. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, a reminder of where I am, of what I’ve lost. As I lie on the cold, hard mattress, Sophie’s face fills my mind. Her smile, her laughter, the way she used to look at me like I was her hero.

I close my eyes, the tears falling freely. Maybe Monroe is right. Maybe it’s time to let go. But how do you let go of a ghost when it’s the only thing keeping you alive?

Chapter Forty

The walls of the solitary confinement cell are my canvas, blank and unyielding. The faint scratching of my nails against the concrete is my lullaby. The guards think they’ve won by shoving me in here, but I’ve always thrived in silence. Solitude isn’t a punishment—it’s clarity. It’s the space where the world outside can’t taint me. No Kelly, no Robert, no Taylor, no Isaac. Just me and the hum of fluorescent lights.

Maximum-security. It’s a nice way of saying I’m trapped with the same predators they claim I am, only I’m better at the game. They don’t see it that way. To them, I’m just another lunatic, another twisted woman who went too far. And maybe I am. But I’m also the one who knows how to survive. The bruises on my ribs are proof. The look on that woman’s face when I smiled through her cheap punches? Priceless.

They call it “population management” when they shove me into solitary. It's not for my protection; it’s for theirs. I’ve learned that manipulation works better when there’s a layer of mystique. Let the rumors swirl—Shae knows your secrets. Shae will twist your words and turn your allies against you. I never said those things, but the whispers keep the weak ones trembling and the strong ones wary.

The guards hate me. I can see it in their eyes. Not just because of what I did out there in the world but because I make their lives harder in here. They don’t like a prisoner who smiles too much, who takes her lumps without breaking, who grins up at them like they’re the punchline to a joke they don’t understand.

“Time for rec,” one of them barks through the slot in the door. His voice echoes, hard and metallic.

“Rec,” I say, rolling the word around in my mouth like candy. “That’s a funny name for staring at a concrete wall surrounded by chain-link fencing. But sure, let’s call it recreation.”

The slot slams shut. My favorite part of the day is getting under their skin.

When the door opens, I don’t bother looking at the guard. I know the drill—hands behind my back, shuffle forward. They escort me like I’m some feral animal they’ve barely tamed. And maybe I am.

Out in the yard, the other women glance at me, some with curiosity, some with outright hostility. I don’t meet their eyes. I’ve learned to play it cool. My survival depends on walking the razor’s edge between unthreatening and untouchable. If they think you’re weak, they’ll tear you apart. If they think you’re too strong, they’ll gang up on you.

I find my corner, the one spot that gets just enough sunlight to remind me what warmth feels like without giving me a tan. The air smells faintly of sweat and desperation. It’s familiar, almost comforting.

“Hey, Shae.”

The voice belongs to Parker, a wiry woman with tattoos snaking up her arms and a perpetual smirk. She’s one of the few who doesn’t hate me outright. We have an understanding: I don’t mess with her, and she doesn’t mess with me.

“Parker,” I say, acknowledging her with a nod. “How’s the empire-building business?”

“Thriving,” she replies, leaning against the fence. “Heard you’ve been causing trouble again.”

“Define trouble,” I say, feigning innocence.

She chuckles. “You’ve got a gift, you know that? Getting inside people’s heads. It’s almost a shame you’re stuck in here. You could’ve been a lawyer or a politician.”

“Or a therapist,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. It’s meant to be a joke, but the taste of it in my mouth is bitter.

Parker doesn’t push. She knows better. She’s smart like that. “Well, keep it up,” she says, walking off. “You make this place interesting.”

Interesting. That’s one way to describe the chaos I leave in my wake. It’s not that I enjoy the drama, exactly. It’s more like a reflex. A survival mechanism. If I keep the focus on everyone else’s weaknesses, they won’t have time to notice mine.

Back in my cell, I stare at the small window. The sky outside is pale blue, a canvas of peace that feels like an insult. I can almost hear Kelly’s voice, faint and accusing, telling me how I ruined everything. But Kelly survived. So did Robert. That’s the cruel irony—they’re out there, breathing, living, while I’m in here. The monster they created, locked away like a secret they’re too ashamed to admit.

I wonder if they think about me. I wonder if Kelly, in her hospital bed, ever feels a twinge of guilt. Probably not. People like her don’t dwell on their mistakes. They rewrite the narrative to make themselves the victim. I learned that from the best, after all.

A month later, they assign me a new therapist. Dr. Vega. He’s young, bright-eyed, and clearly thinks he’s going to make a difference. He sits across from me in the therapy room, his notebook open, pen poised like he’s about to capture the essence of my soul in bullet points.

“Shae,” he begins, his voice calm and measured. “How are you feeling today?”

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Oh, you know. Just another day in paradise.”

He doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch. Good. That means he’ll last at least a few sessions before he gives up.

“Why don’t we talk about your family?” he suggests.

I snort. “You mean the people who set the stage for this circus act? Sure, let’s talk about them.”

Dr. Vega nods, encouraging me to continue. His patience is irritating, but I decide to play along. For now.

“My mother,” I say, letting the word hang in the air. “She’s a real piece of work. Abandoned me as a kid, then had the audacity to insert herself back into my life as my therapist. Can you imagine? Twenty years of therapy, and she never once told me the truth. She just sat there, taking notes, pretending to care.”

“And how did that make you feel?” Dr. Vega asks.

I roll my eyes. “How do you think it made me feel? Betrayed. Angry. Like I was a pawn in her twisted game.”

“And your father?”

I laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “Robert? He’s the cherry on top. An abusive drunk who showed up twenty years too late, thinking he could play hero. Spoiler alert: he couldn’t.”

Dr. Vega scribbles something in his notebook. I can’t help but wonder what he’s writing. Probably some bullshit about unresolved trauma and trust issues.

“And Sophie?” he asks gently.

My chest tightens, the name hitting me like a sucker punch. “What about her?”

“You’ve mentioned her before. She seems to be a significant part of your story.”

I glare at him, the anger bubbling beneath the surface. “Sophie was perfect. She was everything I wasn’t. And I hated her for it.”

Dr. Vega doesn’t respond, just waits for me to continue. The silence is heavy, oppressive, but I refuse to fill it. Instead, I stare at the floor, my mind replaying memories I’d rather forget. The night at the pier. The argument. The push.

“She’s dead,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “And it’s my fault.”

Dr. Vega leans forward, his expression compassionate but not pitying. “Do you blame yourself for what happened?”

I laugh again, the sound hollow. “Of course I do. But blaming myself doesn’t change anything, does it? It doesn’t bring her back.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he agrees. “But acknowledging your pain is the first step toward healing.”

“Spare me the therapy clichés,” I snap. “I’ve heard them all before.”

Dr. Vega doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he closes his notebook and looks me in the eye. “I’m not here to fix you, Shae. I’m here to help you understand yourself. The rest is up to you.”

His words linger long after the session ends. Understanding myself? What’s there to understand? I’m a product of my circumstances, a mosaic of broken pieces held together by anger and spite. And yet, a small part of me wonders if he’s right. If there’s something deeper beneath the surface, something I’ve been too afraid to confront.

That night, as I lie on the cold mattress of my cell, I think about Sophie. Her laughter, her kindness, the way she used to look at me like I was her hero. I think about Kelly, her manipulations and lies, and Robert, his hollow attempts at redemption. I think about Taylor, his betrayal, and Dean, his smug satisfaction at my downfall.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel something other than anger. It’s faint, fragile, like a flicker of light in the darkness. Regret. Not for what I’ve done, but for what I’ve lost. For what I’ll never have.

The prison is silent, the only sound the faint hum of the fluorescent lights. I close my eyes, the tears falling freely. Maybe Dr. Vega is right. Maybe it’s time to let go.

Epilogue

one year later

The bright lights from the prison's makeshift studio glare down at me, hotter than the summer sun over Pismo Beach. Oprah herself is seated across from me, her perfectly composed face unreadable, a neutral mask of journalistic curiosity. Cameras flank us, capturing every angle, every twitch of my lips, every glint in my eyes. I wonder what the crew sees when they look at me—a monster? A victim of circumstance? Or just a ratings jackpot?

“Shae,” Oprah begins, her voice rich with that signature empathy that could coax a confession from the devil himself. “Your story has captivated the world. The bestselling memoir, the Netflix show, the debates about justice and morality—you're at the center of it all. How does that feel?”

I smile, slow and deliberate, like a cat toying with a cornered mouse. “It feels,” I say, dragging the words out just enough to make them lean in, “like vindication.”

The audience behind the cameras shifts. I can sense their unease. It's delicious.

“My life was chaos,” I continue, gesturing with my cuffed hands for dramatic effect. “People see me as the villain because it's easier than admitting how many of us are products of the same dysfunction. I just happen to wear it better.”

Oprah tilts her head, an expertly calibrated gesture of interest. “Your memoir, The Perfect Disguise, has sparked a global conversation about trauma, mental health, and accountability. You’re quite the social media sensation. Do you think the world sees you as you really are?”

I laugh, sharp and biting. “Oh, Oprah, the world doesn’t want the real me. They want the curated version, the Netflix-ready drama queen. The sob story wrapped in blood and betrayal. I gave them exactly what they wanted.”

It all started with the memoir. I had nothing but time in solitary confinement, and writing was a more interesting way to pass it than counting the cracks in the wall. The guards brought me a stack of composition notebooks and a chewed-up pen, probably expecting me to scribble out some sad apologies or maybe a plea for redemption. Instead, I gave them my truth. Raw, unapologetic, and spiked with just enough snark to make it sting.

By the time I’d finished the first draft, word had spread through the prison grapevine. Guards whispered, inmates stared. One of the staff—a journalism student moonlighting as a corrections officer—smuggled the pages to her professor, who happened to know a literary agent. The rest was inevitable.

Netflix came next, sniffing around with their promises of “authentic storytelling” and “artistic integrity.” I didn’t believe a word of it, but I played along, nodding and smiling in those early production meetings like a good little sociopath.

They cast a brunette with sharp cheekbones and dead eyes to play me, which felt fitting. She’s an excellent mimic, though. Watching her reenact my confrontations with Kelly and Robert is like staring into a funhouse mirror. The voiceovers are mine, recorded from prison during supervised sessions. They say it adds authenticity, but I know the real reason: my voice gives people chills. And chills sell.

The show became an instant sensation. Number one on Netflix for six weeks straight. True crime junkies devoured it, debating every choice I’d made, every lie I’d told. The memes were everywhere—“Shae's Rules for Revenge” and “Caregiving, the Sociopath's Edition.” A younger me might’ve been offended, but now? Now I see the brilliance in it. Capitalism is nothing if not consistent.

“Your memoir and the Netflix series delve into your relationship with your mother, Kelly,” Oprah says, bringing me back to the present. “You describe her as both your victim and your tormentor. How do you reconcile those feelings?”

I tilt my head, mimicking her earlier gesture. “Kelly is a complicated woman. On one hand, she abandoned me, lied to me, and treated me like a pawn in her twisted game of redemption. On the other, she survived me. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

Oprah doesn’t flinch. “You’ve been accused of deflecting responsibility for your actions. What do you say to those critics?”

I lean forward, letting the cuffs on my wrists clink against the metal table. “I say they’re hypocrites. Society loves to point fingers at people like me, but they’re the ones who made me a star. They watch the show, they buy the book, they tweet about how terrible I am while secretly rooting for me to escape prison and wreak more havoc. If I’m a monster, I’m their monster.”

The audience outside these walls agrees. My fan mail is proof enough of that. Letters pour in daily—some from people who think I’m misunderstood, others from those who want to understand me better. A surprising number are marriage proposals. Apparently, murder is an aphrodisiac for a certain type of person.

And then there’s the merchandise. My likeness on t-shirts, mugs, and phone cases. My favorite is the one that says Team Shae in blood-red letters. I get a cut of the profits, of course. My lawyer made sure of that. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep my commissary account stocked with ramen and eyeliner.

“Your relationship with your father, Robert, also plays a significant role in your story,” Oprah says. “Have you found any closure there?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Closure? That’s a fairy tale, Oprah. Robert’s as broken as the rest of us. He tried to make amends, sure, but too little, too late. The damage was already done.”

“And yet,” she presses, “you let him back into your life. Why?”

“Because I was curious,” I admit, my voice softer now. “Curiosity is a dangerous thing, but it’s also the only thing that kept me alive for so long. I wanted to see if he was capable of change. Spoiler alert: he wasn’t.”

The LA Innocence Project reached out last month. They want to appeal my conviction, claiming my trial was tainted by media bias and public hysteria. Ironic, considering they’re part of the same machine that turned me into a household name. But I’m not complaining. If they can get me out of this hellhole, I’ll happily play their game.

My lawyer says it’s a long shot, but I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge. And if it doesn’t work out, well, I’ve got other plans. There’s talk of a sequel to the memoir, maybe a podcast. The possibilities are endless when you’re a brand.

“Do you ever think about forgiveness?” Oprah asks, her gaze piercing.

I pause, letting the question hang in the air. Forgiveness. It’s such a pretty word, so clean and pure. It doesn’t belong in my vocabulary.

“Forgiveness,” I say slowly, “is a luxury for people who don’t have blood on their hands. I’m not one of those people.”

“But could you be?” she asks. “If given the chance?”

I smile, sharp and knowing. “Maybe. But where’s the fun in that?”

As the interview wraps up, Oprah thanks me for my honesty. Honesty. That’s a laugh. I haven’t been honest a day in my life. But she doesn’t need to know that. The cameras don’t need to know that. The world doesn’t need to know that.

Back in my cell, I replay the interview in my mind, analyzing every word, every gesture. It went well. Better than I expected. The producers will be thrilled. The ratings will skyrocket. And me? I’ll be one step closer to whatever comes next.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that survival isn’t about being the strongest or the smartest. It’s about being the most adaptable. And I’m nothing if not adaptable.

THE END

If you enjoyed Shae’s story, I would be so honored if you left an honest review for The Intruder on Amazon!

And if you like psychological horror novels, turn the page to check out The Last Writer, my modern reimagining of Fall of the House of Usher by Edgar Allan Poe!

The Last Writer

A gripping and atmospheric reimagining of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher” from USA Today bestselling author Adriane Leigh

An isolated mansion. A chillingly charismatic recluse. A library haunted by secrets that refuse to be buried. . . .

Aspiring thriller writer Ryn Weaver never imagined her dream opportunity would lead her into a nightmare. Selected for the coveted Writer-in-Residence program at the iconic New York Public Library, Ryn is thrilled to study under Yara Thornberry—a reclusive literary legend whose twisted imagination shaped a generation.

But the library's shadowy halls hide more than inspiration. Yara and her enigmatic twin brother, Yarrow, harbor a chilling past entwined with their notorious childhood bestseller—a sinister tale that blurs the line between fiction and reality. When Ryn discovers the gruesome fate of the last writer who ventured too close, she begins to question if the Thornberry siblings’ twisted legacy is more fact than fiction.

As strange occurrences escalate, Ryn finds herself trapped in a deadly game where the price of creativity may be her life. Can she unravel the truth hidden within the Thornberry twins’ masterpiece, or will her ambition lead her to a terrifying end?

"A must read that will have you asking if Poe's daughter wrote this story."

"Fans of Riley Sager will love The Last Writer. An addictive, bone-chilling book! Be sure to keep the lights on!"

- Nelle Lamarr, New York Times Bestselling Author of The Family Guest

Read The Last Writer Now

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Acknowledgments

Thank you to my incredible beta readers: Andrea Johnston, Sally the Muse, and Nelle Lamarr—I am so thankful to each of you for your priceless feedback on this wild story.

Special thanks goes to Marty Himmel for always being up for a wacky conversation and talking me through the messy parts of life. Our talks always leave me feeling a little more…human.

I’m so thankful to my local, downtown support system. I feel so lucky to live in such a special community that loves to support artists and makers.

Much gratitude goes to my family for putting up with me!

As ever, I’m grateful to the amazing baristas at Aldea Coffee for putting up with my loitering for hours on end as I write these crazy books.

I’m forever thankful to the readers who have followed along with Shae’s antics over three books. I’m so honored by your time spent reading this story—your reviews have blown me away! I’m especially touched by those that have mentioned that you’ve found yourself feeling sympathetic to Shae even in her darkest moments—my goal as an author is to elicit that strange little mix of emotions that feel contradictory and so real.

I’m fascinated by the beautiful and messy way that all of us navigate this thing called life…thank you for being a part of mine. :)

xo Adriane

Also by Adriane Leigh

"Fans of Riley Sager will love The Last Writer. An addictive, bone-chilling book! Be sure to keep the lights on!" - Nelle Lamarr, New York Times Bestselling Author of The Family Guest

PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER

The Influencer

The Imposter

The Invader

My Perfect Family

The Perfect Escape

The Guests

The Last Writer

The Haunting of Annabel

She Let Me In

The Debutante

CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE

From Salt to Skye

About That Summer

The Morning After

Confessed

Wild

Beautiful Burn

An Arrogant Gentleman

Sign up for new release alerts at www.adrianeleigh.com

About the Author

Adriane Leigh is a USA Today bestselling author of multiple novels and novellas. With appearances in publications such as Vogue Magazine and The Montreal Gazette, the award-winning author, in addition to writing, founded RARE: Romance Author & Reader Events, a community of internationally-renowned book conventions that draw thousands of readers and #1 bestselling authors to events around the world each year. 

She hosts a podcast, The Rebel Artist, and her books are translated into French, Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese.

She lives on Lake Michigan with her family.

Visit adrianeleigh.com for events, new releases, and more.