The Zion trip was the light at the end of the tunnel. For three years, since freshman year, it was the thing Liam and I planned for, the epic post-graduation adventure that made all the late-night study sessions and SAT prep worth it. The night before our flight, he blew it all up. He secretly changed everyone’s tickets to a cushy all-inclusive resort in Cancun. The one Chloe, our school’s reigning queen bee, had been talking about for weeks. I overheard his friends teasing him in the hotel lobby. “Dude, what about your little master planner? Just gonna leave Maya high and dry?” “She’s so attached at the hip, she’ll probably cry when she finds out we left.” Liam paused, and then I heard the casual arrogance in his voice that had become all too familiar. “Nah, it’s fine. She has the password to our Google Doc itinerary. She checks it like ten times a day. Once she sees I changed the flights, she’ll book a new ticket and chase us down to Mexico. She always does.” I didn’t confront him. I didn’t scream. I just quietly backed away. I didn’t touch his new itinerary. I didn’t change my destination. I only changed one thing. On my laptop, I logged into the university portal, declined my offer from UCLA—his dream school, just 3000 miles away from my own dream—and officially committed to NYU. He wanted to lounge on a beach with Chloe. I had my own mountains to climb. That adventure map, the one I’d spent countless nights perfecting, was never just for him anyway. 1 The notification on my phone was subtle: “Liam Miller made edits to ‘Project Zion.’” I opened the Google Doc on my tablet, my heart sinking as I saw the familiar red rock landscapes of Utah replaced with stock photos of turquoise water and white sand beaches. Cancun. The editor, based on the little profile icon, was Chloe Vance. Tablet in hand, I walked towards Liam’s hotel room, planning to ask what was going on. But their voices, leaking through the door, stopped me cold. He knew. He knew how much hiking Zion meant to me. Back in freshman year, I’d told him my dream was to stand on top of Angel’s Landing, to conquer a trail that was bigger and wilder than anything in our suburban Connecticut town. Liam had looked me right in the eye and promised, “The day after we graduate, I’m taking you there. We’ll do it together.” He’d watched me pour over maps, create gear lists, and book campsites for years. And now, less than twelve hours before we were supposed to leave, he’d just… changed his mind. “Aren’t you worried Maya’s gonna flip?” one of his friends, Mark, asked. “It’s just a trip. We can go hiking anytime. Chloe mentioned she wanted a real vacation. How could I say no to that?” Mentioned she wanted it? Liam and I had grown up next door to each other. He gave me my first kiss in ninth grade, a clumsy peck on the cheek behind the bleachers, and told me he had a surprise for me after graduation. But everything shifted when Chloe transferred to our school sophomore year. My 18th birthday party? Liam ditched it because Chloe wanted to go to the city for a concert. The slice of cake I’d saved for myself after a rough day? Chloe saw it, said it looked good, and Liam handed it to her without a second thought. The morning of our final SATs? Chloe “forgot” her bag of supplies, so Liam ripped my backpack out of my hands and gave it to her, leaving me to sprint across campus and beg a proctor for a spare pencil thirty minutes before the exam. Afterward, he’d always say the same thing with a shrug. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll make it up to you.” “…Besides, man, Chloe’s a knockout,” Mark’s voice drifted through the door. “Rich family, super hot… when a girl like that asks for something, you give it to her. Only a tomboy like Maya would want to go play in the dirt for a week.” Then came Liam’s voice, a sarcastic chuckle that shattered the last piece of my heart. “She’s basically a puppy dog. She’ll whine a bit, but she’ll still follow me wherever I go. God, it’s so annoying. I can’t shake her.” A wave of laughter followed. I leaned against the cool wall, feeling the floor drop out from under me. 2 I stumbled back to my room in a daze. The Zion itinerary was still glowing on my laptop screen. My roommate, Jenna, saw the look on my face. “Hey, what’s wrong?” I held back the tears, not wanting to admit I’d been eavesdropping. I just mumbled something about a change of plans for tomorrow. Jenna, bless her heart, didn’t know the backstory. She leaned over to look at my screen, and her eyes widened. “They changed my ticket too? The hell? If they want to go get sunburned in Cancun, fine, but why drag me into it? I don’t want to go!” She was ready to storm down the hall and give Liam a piece of her mind, but I grabbed her arm. That’s when the tears finally broke free. Jenna stopped, her anger melting away when she noticed my flight itinerary was the only one they hadn’t changed. We were all staying at an airport hotel to catch our early flight. They had rebooked their new flight to leave two hours earlier than our original one. If I hadn’t seen that notification, I would have woken up tomorrow to an empty hotel. They would have been gone, and I probably wouldn’t have even been able to reach them. The thought was a physical pain in my chest. “That son of a bitch!” Jenna seethed. “That ungrateful, brainwashed idiot! After everything you and your family did for him!” Liam’s mom passed away when he was little. His dad worked two jobs to raise him, but then, in our freshman year of high school, he was diagnosed with cancer. During that time, Liam was juggling final exams and daily hospital visits. I couldn’t stand to see him suffer, so I started going with him, just trying to be a small help. Right before his dad passed, when Liam had stepped out of the room, he grabbed my hand. His was so weak. He asked me to look after his son. Torn apart by my crush on Liam and my sympathy for his situation, I just nodded blindly. After the funeral, I begged my parents for days until they agreed to let Liam move in with us. They treated him like their own son. I’d always been a bit shy, a little hesitant. With Liam around, I felt braver, and I started sticking close to him, like a shadow. My parents used to joke that I’d finally gotten the big brother I always wanted. Tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t understand how the boy who clung to me, sobbing, after his father died… the boy who moved into my house and told me with red-rimmed eyes, “Maya, you’re the best person in the world, I feel safe when you’re around,”… how could he have turned into this? A person who mocked me behind my back, who acted like even saying my name was an embarrassment. I closed the Google Doc and, with a trembling hand, opened my browser to the NYU student portal. For his dad’s sake, I had promised I would always be there for Liam if he needed me. That’s why, even though my SAT scores were nearly 80 points higher than his, I was planning on going to UCLA with him, settling for a school that was great, but not my first choice. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Liam didn’t need me anymore. And if that was the case, why was I still clinging to him? I checked the box, clicked the button, and confirmed my enrollment. I was going to New York City, 3,000 miles away from him. Jenna watched me, a long sigh escaping her lips. She just reached out and patted my head. I didn’t book a new ticket to Cancun. I didn’t go knock on their door to demand an explanation. Hiking in Zion was my dream. My obsession with this trip was never about Liam. It was about challenging myself, seeing those majestic cliffs with my own eyes, and proving that the timid girl I used to be could handle a real adventure. Liam could trade our promise for a week with Chloe. Fine. I could choose to walk my own path, without him. For the first time, I wasn’t going to compromise for Liam. 3 The next morning, I was up before sunrise. When Liam and his crew stumbled into the lobby with their suitcases, Jenna and I were already there, waiting with our backpacks. Liam, who had been looking around nervously, broke into a smug grin when he saw me. He clearly thought I’d seen the changes and caved. He cleared his throat, addressing the group like a camp counselor. “Hey guys, quick update. Chloe’s been feeling a little under the weather, and the forecast for Utah is showing some rain. Bit risky for hiking. So, we’ve rerouted the grad trip to Cancun for some R&R.” Chloe, standing behind him, pulled on his sleeve and offered me a weak smile. “I’m so sorry, Maya. I know you wanted to go hiking. It’s just a little cough, really. Liam’s just being overprotective.” Mark chimed in immediately. “Chloe, you’re too nice. A vacation is supposed to be fun for everyone, right? It’s not fair for one person to dictate the whole thing. That’s just being a tyrant.” A tyrant? After all the hours I’d spent planning, coordinating schedules, and fronting my own money for deposits, I was the tyrant for not wanting the entire trip changed at the last minute? A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I looked straight at Liam, my voice dangerously calm. “The plan was set. You don’t just change the core of it overnight. I’m sorry, but my plans haven’t changed. I’m going to Zion.” It must have been the first time I’d ever openly disagreed with him. His brow furrowed, his expression souring. “By yourself? Don’t be ridiculous, Maya, it’s dangerous. It’s just a flight change. You saw the doc, it’s not a big deal. Besides, Zion will always be there. I’ll take you next time, I promise—” “I made the plan,” I cut him off, my voice flat. “I’ll be fine on my own. You can trade your adventure for a beach chair, but I won’t. I have my own views I want to see. Mark, Jenna, your choice. Zion with me, or Cancun with them.” Jenna stepped to my side without hesitation. Mark scoffed and shuffled over to Liam’s group, shooting me a defiant look. Only Liam stood there, his face turning a blotchy red. “Maya, are you really going to be this stubborn? Do you have to ruin it for everyone?” I smiled, a real one this time, and turned away from him, grabbing Jenna’s arm. “Ruin it? I’m pretty happy, actually. You do you.” As we walked away, I could feel his incredulous stare on my back. He couldn’t believe I was actually leaving. “Maya, you’re going to regret this!” he yelled after me. “Don’t come crying to me later!” Jenna leaned over as we headed for the security line. “Is he twelve?” 4 On the plane, Jenna and I re-worked the plan. After we landed, we called the outfitter we’d booked and changed our five-person guided trek to a two-person rental. By the afternoon, we had our gear and were standing at the trailhead. The sun was intense and the wind kicked up dust, but we had prepared for this. Instead of being beaten down by the trail, we felt energized, more alive with every step. Under the vast, empty sky of the desert, all my drama with Liam felt so incredibly small. All the doubts I’d had were being baked away by the sun, and looking at the incredible scenery around me, I was flooded with gratitude. Thank God I didn’t back down. Thank God I was here. Jenna and I made a silent pact not to mention Liam’s group. We were giddy, consulting our map, taking pictures of every cool rock formation, and just enjoying the moment. My phone buzzed a few times. Liam. I checked the time. They would have landed and settled into their resort by now. He was probably calling to “make peace.” That was his move. He’d throw a punch, then offer a band-aid. He’d be incredibly dismissive of my feelings, then smother me with fake concern and soft words later. I used to fall for it every time, getting trapped in a cycle of self-doubt. Maybe he doesn’t mean it. Maybe he’s just bad with words but really cares about me. But in that moment, looking out at the canyon, I suddenly saw it with perfect clarity. There’s no such thing as a tough exterior with a heart of gold. The moment the words left his mouth, that was him. That was the real person. The only reason he kept me around was because he couldn’t stand the thought of losing his personal doormat. The buzzing was annoying me. I’d already called my parents to let them know I’d landed safely. There was no one else I needed to talk to. I switched my phone to airplane mode and focused on taking pictures with Jenna. As dusk settled, we reached the mouth of a canyon and set up our small tent. The temperature dropped fast. We pulled on our down jackets as the first stars pricked the darkening sky. Soon, the whole night was a glittering, silent, magnificent canvas. Unable to reach me, Liam started calling Jenna. She was changing, so she put it on speaker. His voice, tinny and anxious, filled our tent. “Where’s Maya? Why isn’t she answering her phone? Where are you guys? Are you safe? Tell her to stop pouting. The resort here is amazing. She should just book a flight over. We saved a room for you.” Jenna just said “Piss off,” and hung up. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. Under the breathtaking blanket of stars, I felt a strength inside me that I’d never known before. 5 Our first day was tough, but perfect. As it got darker, other backpackers started setting up camp near us. We shared stories and trail tips, and Jenna and I tweaked our route for the next day based on their advice. After hanging up, Liam immediately called back. He kept calling, interrupting our conversation with the other hikers, until Jenna finally answered, her voice dripping with annoyance. “What do you want? Don’t you ever give up?” Liam’s tone was frantic. “Where are you? Maya’s phone is going straight to voicemail. Are you two safe?” Just as I predicted. His classic manipulation tactic. The old Maya would have melted, her anger dissolving into guilt, and she would have immediately started apologizing. I took the phone from Jenna and kept it on speaker. “We’re on vacation. Your constant calling is really annoying.” There was a stunned silence, then Liam actually laughed. “Still mad? Look, I was gonna tell you about Cancun yesterday, I just wanted it to be a surprise. What’s so fun about a dusty desert anyway? We have pools and amazing food here.” He lowered his voice into that fake-cajoling tone he used. “I forgot to tell you yesterday, my bad. Don’t be mad, okay? C’mon, be good. No one’s gonna want you if you’re always this difficult.” I listened to his words, my face a blank mask. He really thought I was just mad because he didn’t tell me. He thought that if he just “handled” me with a few sweet words, I’d fold. I was about to say something scathing when another voice piped up on his end, syrupy sweet. “Yeah, Maya, please don’t be mad. Liam’s been in a terrible mood all day because you’re upset.” Hearing Chloe’s fake, breathy voice made my skin crawl. Suddenly, being on the phone with them was ruining my perfect night. “It’s all my fault…” she continued, her voice trembling. “If you’re going to be mad at anyone, be mad at me. Don’t take it out on Liam. Please just book a flight over. I’ll apologize, I promise.” Liam’s voice turned hard. “Maya, did you hear that? Chloe’s about to cry. You need to fix that attitude of yours. Who else is going to put up with you but me? I don’t care what you do, you book a flight here for tomorrow and you apologize to Chloe. Stop making everyone miserable just because of you.” “Why don’t you both just shut your mouths,” I said, my voice ice cold. “I can smell the bullshit through the phone.” I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “I’m doing my thing, you’re doing yours. And you want me to apologize to you? You’ve got to be kidding me.” There was a long pause. “Maya,” Liam warned, his voice low and dangerous, “don’t push it.” I hung up. 6 Someone had started a campfire. Jenna and I sat near the flames, sharing a bag of beef jerky while other campers offered us s’mores. “That asshole,” Jenna muttered around a mouthful of jerky. “After all the good things you did for him. He’s such an ungrateful bastard. A total snake.” I should have been furious, but watching Jenna get so worked up on my behalf, a wave of warmth washed over me. I smiled, watching the flames dance. “It’s my fault, really,” I said quietly. “I let him build my comfort zone, and I just stayed in it. For so long, I made him think I couldn’t live without him, that I’d always just follow him around.” I sighed, looking up at the impossibly bright Milky Way above us. “Walking that trail today, I realized something. The sky doesn’t fall without Liam. I think… I think I was in love with the boy he used to be. The one who dreamed about adventure with me… or maybe,” I paused, “maybe not even him.” Jenna looked at me, confused. “Maybe I was just in love with the idea of it. That feeling. The one that feels like your whole life is ahead of you.” Jenna grinned and threw an arm around my shoulder. “Well, tonight, let’s say goodbye to that part of our lives!” I laughed with her, feeling lighter than I had in years. I raised my water bottle like a champagne flute. “To the end of an era!” I shouted into the vast, starry night. “And to a clean break!”

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It was one of those stories that did the rounds in the ER before it ever got to my floor, the kind of tale that makes you shake your head and mutter, “You can’t make this stuff up.” The patient was a sixty-two-year-old guy, Walter Henderson. He hadn’t been brought in by paramedics or dropped off by a worried spouse. No, Walter arrived at our hospital via a frantic call from the director of the local funeral home. Apparently, his family had him pronounced dead at home—some rushed paperwork from a local coroner’s assistant who never even laid eyes on the body—and shipped him straight off for cremation. Then, as they were prepping him, one of the morticians saw his chest move. A shallow breath, but a breath nonetheless. Then his eyelids fluttered. The guy nearly had a heart attack of his own, called the family, and told them to get their “dearly departed” to a hospital, stat. He even dialed 911 for them. By the time Walter rolled into our ER, he was conscious. A bit dazed, but awake. We hooked him up, ran an EKG, drew blood, and the diagnosis was clear as day: a massive, honest-to-God heart attack. The kind they call a “widow-maker.” Dr. Ramirez, our on-call cardiologist, immediately started prepping for an emergency procedure. He sat the family down. “Look,” he said, trying to be gentle but firm. “There’s a chance. A good one, actually.” He was being conservative, but we all knew what he meant: with aggressive treatment, Walter was very likely to pull through. “We need to get him to the cath lab right now, open up that artery.” For those who don’t speak medical jargon, that means threading a tiny tube up to his heart, inflating a little balloon to clear the blockage, and popping in a stent to keep the blood flowing. It’s practically routine these days. The family—four of them, looking more inconvenienced than grief-stricken—exchanged glances. Then the eldest son, a man with a perpetually twitching eye, shook his head. “No. He’s old. We don’t want him to suffer.” A collective sigh went through the ER staff. We all thought it was a damn shame. The guy was fighting, his vitals were holding. He had a real shot. Dr. Ramirez tried again, emphasizing the hope, stressing that this was his best and only chance. But you can’t guarantee 100% in our line of work, and that was the out they needed. They stuck to their refusal. But here’s the weird part. They didn’t take him home. They just… left him there, in an observation bay in the ER, hooked up to monitors they didn’t want us to act on. Their plan was clear: they were just waiting. Walter, however, had other plans. His life force was stubborn, clinging on with a tenacity that defied his family’s wishes. By the morning of the third day, he wasn’t just breathing; he was talking. A nurse was walking by when she heard him, his voice a dry rasp. “Hungry,” he croaked. “Need… something to eat.” The four family members sitting by his bedside didn’t so much as flinch. Then Walter said something that sent a chill down everyone’s spine: “I still want to live.” Our ER nurse, Sarah, couldn’t take it anymore. She went to the breakroom, got the oatmeal she hadn’t had time to eat, and fed it to him herself, spoonful by spoonful. Later, Sarah told Dr. Ramirez what happened. He marched back out to the family. This time, he didn’t mince words. “If you let us treat him, his chances of survival are very high.” They looked at each other, a long, silent conversation passing between them. Finally, the twitchy-eyed son stepped forward. “If we don’t treat him,” he asked, “how long does he have?” Dr. Ramirez glanced at the monitor, at the steady green lines. “There’s no way to tell.” The family huddled outside the ER doors for a good half hour. Their decision? Transfer him to hospice care. And that, my friends, is how Walter Henderson ended up with me. I work in the hospice unit. Dr. Ramirez has a soft spot for us; he’s always sending us the “interesting” cases. He called our nurses’ station that night. “Got a heart attack patient for you,” he said. “Family is requesting a transfer for tomorrow. Can you get a bed ready?” It was me on the night shift. I figured “tomorrow” meant after the morning shift change. I mean, it’s hospice. What’s the rush, right? I was just pulling a fresh set of sheets onto the mattress when they rolled in—the family, an ER nurse, and Walter on a gurney. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It read 12:05 AM. “Tomorrow,” just as promised. Those guys in the ER have a sick sense of humor. That’s when it really hit me: for some people, the end of life can’t come fast enough. After getting him settled, I checked his file. Not a single payment made. Zero. Our attending doc told the family to see me at the nurses’ station to pay a deposit. Given what he’d already racked up in the ER, it should have been at least a thousand dollars. The doc told them five hundred to be nice. The twitchy-eyed son came over to my desk. “Nurse,” he said, not even looking at me. “The doctor said to pay a two-hundred-dollar deposit. Can I just do fifty for now?” He answered his own question before I could even open my mouth. The doctor’s office is right behind the nurses’ station; I’m not deaf. I hate being treated like an idiot. I picked up the desk phone and called the doctor right in front of him. “Dr. Evans? Just confirming the deposit for Mr. Henderson. Was it five hundred?” Hearing the doctor’s confirmation, the son’s face soured. “What is this? You think we’re gonna skip out on the bill? Fifty. Take it or leave it.” My shift was already a nightmare. I had three other patients actively dying. I didn’t have the time or the energy to haggle. I took the fifty bucks. So much for the theory that you can’t bargain at a hospital. The family made their wishes crystal clear on the intake forms: NO oxygen. NO suctioning. NO monitors. NO resuscitation. Two of the four stayed the first night. By morning, they seemed disappointed he was still breathing and promptly left, telling us to call them “when it’s over.” But Walter wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t just breathing; he was still asking for food. “Nurse, I’m hungry,” became his mantra. His family hadn’t ordered him a meal plan. When I called, his wife, Brenda, cut me off. “He won’t be able to digest it. It’ll just make him suffer more. You guys do what you think is best… just don’t let him be in too much pain.” Thank God Walter couldn’t hear her. One person saying, “I want to live,” and his own wife asking us to manage his final moments. The disconnect was staggering. “Don’t let him be in too much pain.” Well, feeding a starving man seemed like a pretty good way to alleviate suffering. The aides felt sorry for him too. We all started sneaking him bits of our own lunches. But we couldn’t sustain a grown man on stolen pudding cups and leftover Jell-O. I had to call the family again, insisting they arrange for regular meals. The son answered. Before I could say a word, he snapped, “We know, we’re on our way.” He thought I was calling to announce the death. “No, sir,” I said quickly. “Mr. Henderson is stable. I’m calling because he needs you to bring him food.” There was a pause on the other end of the line, thick with suspicion. “I get it,” he finally spat. “The longer he lives, the more money you make.” I hung up, stunned. Were they starving him to… save money? To stop the hospital from “profiting”? If they’d just taken him home, we wouldn’t have even gotten the fifty bucks for the bed. It made no sense. This wasn’t a case of a family who couldn’t afford care; these people were well-fed, well-dressed. This was something else. Then, a new visitor started appearing. Walter’s mother, Eleanor. She had to be in her late eighties, a tiny, stooped woman with paper-white skin and a faint scar across her throat. Every other day, she’d take the free city bus, carrying a plastic bag with Tupperware containers inside. She’d arrive at seven in the morning and sit by his bed until five, patiently feeding her son. One afternoon, doing my rounds, I overheard her whispering to him. “It’s okay to let go now, my son. I’m not long for this world either. What is it you’re holding on for?” Walter didn’t listen. He hung on for another week. By then, a nasty rattle had developed in his chest—fluid building up in his lungs. The doctor suggested some medication, or at least suctioning to help him breathe. The family refused. We couldn’t just watch him drown in his own phlegm. So, we started suctioning him on the sly. We never charged for the catheters or the tubing. We couldn’t. There was no doctor’s order, and the family had explicitly forbidden it. Then things got even weirder. One day, they hired a pastor to come into the room and perform what looked like an exorcism, shouting about releasing his spirit to the heavens. It was quite a show. I couldn’t help but think that whatever they paid that man could have covered Walter’s food for a month. I was about to give Walter his lunch that day when his wife, Brenda, appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing?” she demanded. I’m a nurse. What does she think I’m doing? Normally I’d have a snappy comeback, but I felt like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Oh, Mr. Henderson seemed uncomfortable,” I stammered. “I thought a little food might help him feel better.” “Where did you get that?” she asked, eyeing the container. I hesitated. Did she not know her own mother-in-law was visiting? “His mother brought it,” I said truthfully. Brenda’s face tightened. She told me I was interfering with God’s plan and to hold off on the food for now. As I put the container on his bedside table, a little white lie popped into my head. “It’s okay, ma’am,” I said with a reassuring smile. “His mother told me the pastor blessed this food.” After that day, Eleanor stopped coming. I felt a pang of guilt. I’m sure Brenda put a stop to it. It was my big mouth. So, we went back to our potluck method of feeding Walter. He wasn’t picky. We didn’t have a blender to make things easier; one of the aides would just break up pieces of bread rolls for him, and he’d swallow them dry, one by one. Without proper nutrition, he started to waste away. His limbs swelled with edema from protein deficiency. The family of another patient who passed away even left us a half-full can of protein powder. “For the man in room 4,” they said. “He looks like he needs it more than we do now.” One night, I was doing my rounds when I heard a loud banging. It was Walter, hitting the bed rail with a weak fist, waving me over. I thought he was in pain, or hungry again. It was neither. He was struggling for breath, but his eyes were urgent. He didn’t have a phone. He wanted me to call his family. All of them. He wanted them to come. It felt like he was ready to say his goodbyes. “Okay, Walter,” I said gently. “Let me finish my rounds, and I’ll call them right away.” He shook his head violently. Now. He wanted me to call now. I ran back to the station, found Brenda’s number, and dialed. I explained the situation, that Walter was asking for them, that it seemed important. I heard a small, sharp sound on her end, like a humorless laugh. “Tell him to wait,” she said, and hung up. They never came. I had to tell Walter. He just stared at the ceiling, silent. He never asked me to call them again. Four days later, Brenda finally showed up, alone. Our station is right across from Walter’s room. Through the closed door, we heard it: the distinct, sharp crack of a palm hitting a cheek. We almost called security. This was elder abuse, right? Neglect is one thing, but this? As the charge nurse, I had to intervene. I walked in, using my rounds as an excuse. Brenda was holding Walter’s hand, her face a mask of loving sorrow. “Oh, look, honey, the nurse is here. You be good now. I have to go.” The performance was flawless. But I heard what I heard. I had no proof, just a sickening feeling in my gut. Outside the room, she turned to me, her voice all business. “So, in your professional opinion, how much longer does he have?” I was speechless. She pressed on, her eyes gleaming with a weird, intense curiosity. “Will it be in the next couple of days?” What did this man have? A secret fortune? Did he wrong them in some unforgivable way? I’ve seen hundreds of deaths. I’ve seen families demand we keep doing CPR on a man whose ribs were cracking. I’ve seen peaceful, dignified passings. But I’d never seen a family so eager to push someone into the grave. Walter’s long-neglected body finally gave out. The lung infection, left untreated, took him in the end. He died at two in the morning. The on-call doctor notified the family. I performed the post-mortem care. There were no tubes or lines to remove. I just cleaned him and packed his orifices. He hadn’t had a bowel movement in days, so he passed cleanly. A small mercy. We called the family twice to come and get the body. They finally strolled in around seven a.m. No tears. Nothing. Just three people looking at a stranger. A little while later, their son came out of the room, sweating, watching a YouTube video on his phone titled “How to Dress a Body for a Casket.” Then he went back inside. We heard scuffling sounds. Brenda rushed out to the nurses’ station, exasperated. “We can’t get the suit on him,” she said to Maria, the day-shift charge nurse. “The three of us have been trying. His arms are too stiff. Is there a trick to it?” Rigor mortis sets in a few hours after death. By now, Walter was stiff as a board. It would be another day before the process reversed. That’s why many families dress the deceased before they’ve even passed. Maria, bless her heart, was about to stand up and offer to help, even though it’s not our job. But then Brenda’s eyes fell on Maria’s prominent belly. “Oh, my goodness, honey,” she said, her tone suddenly full of concern. “You must be five or six months along. No, no, you can’t come in there. It’s bad luck. We’ll figure it out.” Later, Maria came back to the station and leaned against the counter. “Thank God for this gut,” she whispered to me. “I swear, this pregnancy belly just saved me from having to do a son’s job for him.” It was such a strange moment of consideration in a sea of cruelty. Why care about a pregnant stranger’s superstitions when you treated your own husband like that? In the end, they gave up on the suit and just laid it over his body. While settling the final bill, Brenda picked up one of our pamphlets on body donation. She read it for a moment. Then she looked up at me and asked, “He’s only been dead a few hours. Is it too late to donate?” I just stared at her. My coworker later said they must have been planning it all along, to save on funeral costs. But I don’t think so. I saw her face. It was a completely random, last-minute thought. A final, bizarre act in a story full of them. Donation requires consent from the spouse, adult children, and living parents. They got Eleanor on the phone. She hesitated for a long time before finally agreeing. Everything was moving forward, and then, at the very last step, they changed their minds. They backed out. Maybe, in the end, some flicker of sentiment, some deeply buried emotion, made them stop. Maybe they just couldn’t bear the thought of giving him away. A month or so later, I heard that Walter Henderson had made his second trip to the local funeral home. This time, he didn’t come back.

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The first thing I remember when I came back was the sound of a bowl shattering against the floorboards, an explosion of ceramic just inches from my feet. A shard flew up and sliced a line across my temple before I even had a chance to flinch. “For God’s sake, Amelia! When are you going to stop this madness?” My husband, Ethan, stood there, his voice tight with a familiar frustration. “I told you, Leo is gone! Gone! We’re never going to find him! Why can’t you just let it go?” He took a step closer, his face contorted with a pain that I used to think was for me, for us. “Do you have any idea what this is doing to me? If you put half the energy you spend on this hopeless search into… into starting over, we could have another baby by now. Have you ever stopped to think what people are saying about me, with a wife who’s completely lost her mind?” Ethan, always so put-together in his tailored suits, looking like he stepped out of a catalog. But now, his handsome features were twisted into a grimace. He saw the blank look on my face, grabbed me by the shoulders, and shoved me toward the bathroom mirror. He forced my head forward, his voice cracking with something I once mistook for desperation. “Amelia, look at yourself! Wake up! If you keep this up, how are we supposed to live? If you die… what am I supposed to do?” I stared at the reflection. The face looking back was gaunt, haunted, but it was younger. So much younger. And in that moment, I knew. I was back. I had come back. I was reborn into the second year of my own personal hell, the year after our son disappeared. A sob tore through me, a raw, ragged sound that came from a place deeper than memory. It was the sound of ten years of agony crammed into a single, waking moment. Ethan, misinterpreting my grief as he always did, sighed and pulled me into his arms. His embrace felt like a cage. “Amy, please,” he murmured, his voice softening into a practiced, weary tone. “You have to pull yourself together. For me.” “He was my son too, you know,” he continued, stroking my hair. “You think I’m not hurting? But life has to go on. It just… has to.” I dug my nails into my palms, hiding the inferno of hatred that was blazing behind my eyes. He thought I was calming down. He let me go and went to the kitchen to start dinner. I watched him from the doorway. He’d taken off his jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, and tied an apron around his waist. Cooking used to be my thing. But after Leo vanished, Ethan took over, insisting he needed to take care of me. He was so tender, so patient. If it weren’t for what I saw just before I died, if I hadn’t been given this impossible second chance, I would have gone to my grave believing he was the perfect, grieving husband. I would have never known that this man—this kind, caring, heartbroken man—was the architect of my entire nightmare. I squeezed my eyes shut, a single tear tracing a path down my cheek. “Amy.” A thumb gently wiped the tear away. “Don’t cry,” Ethan whispered, his voice thick with what I now knew was counterfeit emotion. “When you cry, it breaks my heart.” For a man as stoic as Ethan, those words were the equivalent of a sonnet. “Come on,” he said, leading me to the table. “Dinner’s ready.” He’d made my favorites: braised short ribs and a creamy tomato soup. But my eyes froze on a separate container sitting on the counter, a thermos filled with that same rich soup. Ethan’s eyes followed my gaze. He let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Amy, don’t start. You know Sarah’s been having a hard time, all alone with the baby. Her body is still recovering. And her husband… he’s useless. It’s just a little soup. You wouldn’t finish it all anyway…” Before he could finish his excuse, there was a soft knock at the door. Of course. It was Sarah. She stood on our doorstep, a vision of effortless chic. She was a kindergarten teacher, and she always looked the part—a flowing floral dress, a tasteful cardigan, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed. She looked like a woman who had her life completely under control. In my last life, just before the darkness took me for good, I learned the truth. A few days after Sarah brought her own baby home, exhausted from sleepless nights, she’d rolled over in her sleep and accidentally suffocated him in the blankets. Her husband was a foreman at the local steel plant, a man with a temper as fiery as the furnaces he oversaw. Everyone in our small suburban neighborhood knew he had a heavy hand. If he’d found out their only son, the heir to his name, was gone because of her exhaustion… he would have killed her. So my husband, my loving, supportive Ethan, had a solution. He stole our son and gave him to Sarah. That day, Ethan, a rising manager at his firm, had called me in a panic. He needed an urgent file delivered to his office, something too sensitive to send with a courier. I didn’t want to leave Leo, but the urgency in his voice was compelling. Our son had just finished his bottle and was fast asleep in his crib. I asked our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Gable, to just keep an ear out. I’d be back in an hour, tops. I made it back in forty-five minutes. But Leo was gone. We turned the neighborhood upside down. We searched every backyard, every shed. I was convinced a stray dog had carried him off. Then I was sure he’d been kidnapped. I spent countless hours at the police station, begging them, pleading with them to find my baby. My mind became a torture chamber of possibilities. I dreamt he was found in the river that ran behind our town. I woke up screaming and ran barefoot toward the water, not even realizing I’d lost a shoe until a jogger grabbed my arm and pulled me back from the slippery bank. Another time, a nightmare showed me he was at the bottom of the old well on the edge of town. I went there in the middle of the night with a flashlight, peering into the blackness, calling his name until my voice was raw. I leaned too far, my foot slipped, and I plunged into the icy water. The shock took my breath away. As the water closed over my head, I gave up. I thought, If I can’t be a mother, I don’t deserve to live. Let the water take me. But I was saved. A teenager, out for a late-night run, heard the splash. I woke up in the hospital to the sting of Ethan’s hand across my face. He was crying, screaming at me, asking if I was insane, if I wanted to destroy what little we had left. I clung to him, sobbing that I couldn’t live anymore. My mother-in-law called me a curse, a woman who’d lost her golden grandson. I endured it all. But in the dead of night, the silence was filled with the phantom cries of my son, and the pain was a physical thing, a clawing beast in my chest. That day, in the hospital, Ethan held me tight. He kept whispering, “I’m sorry. Amy, I’m so, so sorry.” I didn’t understand it then. I thought he was sorry for my pain, for our loss. Now, I understood perfectly. Ethan. You gave my son to her. You made me live this hell. I stared at Sarah, standing there in my doorway, a portrait of innocence. You’re right to be sorry, Ethan. You have no idea how sorry you’re going to be. Sarah’s gaze flickered past me, her smile soft and gentle as it landed on Ethan. “Ethan, hi. I’m so sorry to bother you, but do you have any infant Tylenol? Ryan feels a little warm.” Ryan. That’s what she called him. My body tensed. I wanted to leap up, to scream, to tear her perfect hair out. But I forced myself to stay put, digging my nails so hard into my thigh that I felt the skin break. Not yet. It’s not time yet. “What? He has a fever?” Ethan was already grabbing his coat. Sarah glanced at me, her expression a perfect mask of concern. “Ethan, maybe you should just give me the medicine. I don’t want to upset Amelia…” He frowned, looking back at me with a warning in his eyes. “Amelia, I don’t care what kind of mood you’re in, a sick child is not something to play games with. You stay here. And if you even think about pulling another stunt, I swear, I’ll have you committed again.” My blood ran cold. He walked past me, grabbing the thermos of soup on his way out. As Sarah followed him, she shot a look back at me over her shoulder. It was a flash of something ugly—triumph, scorn, and a deep, satisfying pity. The door clicked shut. I collapsed onto the floor, my legs giving out from under me. Committed. The word echoed in my mind. In my previous life, that’s exactly what he did. At Sarah’s suggestion, he convinced everyone I was a danger to myself. He had me institutionalized. I spent a year in a haze of medication, a ghost shuffling through white hallways. They told me I was sick, and when I insisted I wasn’t, they upped the dosage. My hair fell out in clumps. My memory became a fog. I learned to be compliant. I learned to say yes, I was sick. Yes, I was a suicide risk. Yes, I would take my pills. When Ethan finally took me home, I was a shell. I’d given up on finding Leo. I just wanted to feel normal again. But then I started noticing things. The way Ethan’s eyes would follow Sarah. The way she’d manufacture reasons for him to come over, to fix a leaky faucet, to help with her car. The intimacy between them was a poison ivy vine, slowly choking the life out of me. One day, I confronted her. I slapped her. And just like that, Ethan said I’d relapsed. He sent me back. This time, for three years. Those years broke me completely. When I finally saw him again, he was shocked by my appearance. He asked if I was being treated well. I didn’t dare cry. I just promised him I was better. I would never look for Leo again. I would never touch Sarah again. I just wanted to come home. He was going to let me out, but Sarah, who had come with him, gently suggested they keep me for “observation.” Just to be sure. Another month of hell, convinced he’d abandoned me forever. When I finally got out, my body was already failing. I lived for another five years, a hollowed-out woman waiting to die. And in those final moments, as my life faded away, the truth finally came to me. Sarah had walked into my room, holding the hand of a ten-year-old boy. My boy. “Ethan,” she’d said, her voice soft. “I brought Ryan to see her one last time. It’s the least we can do. So she can die knowing she was a mother.” He was there. My husband. Watching me suffer, watching me descend into madness, for ten years. He let me believe I was crazy. He let me believe my son was dead. All to protect her. All to give my child to the woman he truly loved. And now, I was back. And this time, Ethan, the agony of losing a child? It’s your turn to feel it.

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The whole family was overjoyed when I got my acceptance letter to Duke. That night, to celebrate, I cooked for them. A real feast. To thank them for everything they’d done for me. The next morning, they were all dead. My parents, my grandma, my sister, my uncle’s family next door. The poison was fast and merciless. Not a single one survived. I confessed on the spot. Told the sheriff I did it, told him exactly how. But he just stared at me from across the cold metal table of the interrogation room, his eyes sharp and knowing. “I know you’re lying, Casey,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Now tell me. Who’s the real killer?” 1 For as long as I can remember, Grandma Maeve had one obsession: a grandson. A boy to carry on the Miller name. But my mama, it seemed, wasn’t built for it. Two pregnancies, two daughters. Me and my older sister, Clara. In our small, dusty corner of Georgia, a woman who only bore daughters was a dead end. A “barren branch,” they’d call her. Lower than a stray dog in the town’s pecking order. After Mama’s third miscarriage, something in Grandma Maeve snapped. On the night of my tenth birthday, she called my Uncle Ray over. Daddy pushed a slice of dry cake into my hands and told me to stay in the woodshed and not make a peep. I didn’t understand what was happening at first. I just remember Uncle Ray, stinking of cheap whiskey, stumbling toward Clara’s room. Then came Mama’s choked sobs from outside the shed, followed by Grandma Maeve’s venomous hiss. “Useless. God cursed this family the day my son brought you into it. The Miller line will not end with you. If you can’t give me a grandson, your girl will. And she’ll keep trying until she does.” Panic seized me. I started screaming, clawing at the woodshed door, but Daddy yanked it open just to slap me hard across the face, sending me sprawling into the dirt. Then, I heard Uncle Ray’s voice, a drunken roar from inside the house. “You little bitch! You dare scratch me? I’ll beat the hell out of you!” The next morning, when I crept into Clara’s room, she was huddled under the window, clutching her blanket like a shield. Her eyes were swollen and red from a night of crying. Her fingernails were broken, the beds dark with dried blood. His, or hers, I couldn’t tell. Her arms were a canvas of angry purple bruises. I reached out and touched her shoulder. “Clara?” She flinched like I’d burned her, letting out a sharp, terrified cry. When she saw it was me, she collapsed into my arms, her body shaking with silent, ragged sobs. From the hallway, Grandma Maeve’s voice drifted in, cold and bored. “Every woman goes through it. What’s all the screaming about? Pushing out a baby hurts a hell of a lot more. You should see what you did to your uncle’s back, you little heathen. Should’ve tied you to the bedpost.” 2 The nightmare didn’t end. Uncle Ray came over for the next several days. Sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes late at night. Grandma Maeve had consulted some old root doctor who told her the best times for conceiving a boy. Each time he came, Mama and Clara would cry. And when their crying got on Daddy’s nerves, he’d take Mama outside and beat her quiet. I stopped going to school. I’d stand watch by the front door, and the second I saw Uncle Ray’s pickup truck kicking up dust down the road, I’d bolt the door. It only earned me a beating from Grandma Maeve, who’d grab me by my braids and thrash me. “You little snake! You tryin’ to keep me from my grandson?” “You’re the snake! I hope you never get one!” I screamed back one day, fueled by a courage I didn’t know I had. The world went fuzzy as my head slammed against the stone wall of the well. “Good-for-nothing brat!” she shrieked, banging my head against the stone again and again. “I’ll teach you to talk back!” If Mama hadn’t run out and pulled her off, she would have killed me right there. … The universe has a funny way of settling debts. After a few days, Uncle Ray stopped coming. Grandma Maeve paced the porch, muttering, “Where’s he got to? These are the last good days this month.” They found him in the old dry well at the edge of the woods. Starved to death. The town just figured he’d been drunk and fallen in. When she heard her precious son was dead, Grandma Maeve wailed like a banshee. Daddy just stood by her, a silent, stoic statue. Clara insisted on going to see. When they pulled his body out, she just stared, her face a blank mask. Mama held her. “It’s over now, baby girl,” she whispered. “That animal can’t hurt you anymore.” But Clara’s eyes were locked on me. A strange, unnerving stare that made my skin crawl. “Clara? What is it?” I asked. She didn’t answer. Just then, we heard the sirens. Sheriff Brody arrived, his face grim. The scene was a mess. Half the town had come to gawk, trampling any evidence, leaving a carpet of sunflower seed shells and cigarette butts. A few of the braver men had left greasy handprints on the well’s edge when they’d peered in. “Whose boot prints are these?” Brody demanded. “Don’t make me check every man in this town.” “Mine, Sheriff,” a farmer drawled. “Went to take a piss this morning and nearly watered your crime scene.” Brody held up a small scrap of floral fabric. “Anyone recognize this?” Silence. Then one of the men chuckled. “Sheriff, half the women in this county got a pair of panties made from that cloth. You wanna start checkin’?” The crowd roared with laughter. Brody’s face turned red. He started taking statements. When he asked if Ray had any enemies, I pushed my way to the front. I had to tell him what he’d done to Clara. But before I could speak, Grandma Maeve’s hand shot out and yanked my hair. “Your uncle loved you more than anything!” she howled for the crowd. “Aren’t you gonna cry for him?” Her grip tightened, and a sharp slap stung my cheek, bringing tears to my eyes. Sheriff Brody started walking toward me. “Not. A. Word,” Grandma whispered fiercely in my ear. “You keep your mouth shut, I’ll fry you up some bacon when we get home. You say anything, I’ll skin you alive.” Ray was dead. He couldn’t hurt Clara anymore. I nodded, turned to his bloated corpse, and started to sob. Brody gave my grandma a hard look but moved on. No one in town liked Uncle Ray, but you don’t speak ill of the dead. He got nothing. A few weeks later, the official report came back: suicide. Grandma Maeve let out a long sigh of relief and had Daddy arrange the cremation immediately. 3 With Uncle Ray gone, you’d think Grandma Maeve would be miserable. But she was happier than I’d ever seen her. Because Ray had left the Miller family a parting gift. Clara was pregnant. Suddenly, nothing was too good for my sister. The best cuts of meat, fresh eggs every morning, a new mattress so she wouldn’t “catch a chill.” Grandma was convinced her grandson was finally on his way. Clara and I would share secret smiles when she’d sneak me one of her eggs. But the waiting was killing Grandma. She had to know if it was a boy. A trip to the hospital in the city was too expensive, especially if the news was bad. So she went to see the root doctor again. The old woman looked at Clara, felt her belly, and shook her head. “It’s a girl,” she declared. Grandma Maeve’s face turned to thunder. Daddy grabbed a thick stick, ready to bring it down on Clara’s stomach. “I’ll get rid of it right now!” he roared. “Hold on!” the root doctor said, stopping him. “I said it’s a girl now. I didn’t say it had to stay one.” She produced a small vial of dark, oily liquid. “This here is ‘turnin’ oil,’” she said. “One drop in her tea every night at the stroke of midnight. It’ll turn that girl baby into a proper boy. Twenty dollars a bottle. You’ll need three.” Sixty dollars. It was a fortune to us. But for a grandson, Daddy paid without a second thought. Grandma Maeve forced the vile stuff down Clara’s throat every night. But before the first bottle was even empty, Clara started bleeding. We rushed her to the clinic. The doctor said she’d been poisoned. The “turnin’ oil” was loaded with nightshade. If we’d waited any longer, it would’ve killed them both. They saved Clara, but the baby was gone. The doctor held up the tiny, lifeless form. It had been a boy. Grandma Maeve collapsed, wailing about her lost grandson, cursing Clara for being too weak to hold onto him even with the magic oil. The worst news came later. The doctor said the poison had ruined Clara’s womb. She’d never be able to have children. When Clara heard that, a small, relieved smile touched her lips. At least the torture was finally over. Grandma Maeve’s hope died that day, replaced by a simmering, silent rage. And sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, I’d catch her staring at me. A long, calculating stare that sent a shiver down my spine. Her eyes were darker and more terrifying than the unlit country roads at night. I started staying out late after school, doing anything to avoid being home alone with her.

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I was live-streaming my fortune-telling, and I connected with a kind-looking centenarian. He asked me how much longer he had to live. I bluntly told him, “You won’t live past tonight.” He didn’t get angry. Instead, he kindly forgave my lack of skill. He even went so far as to live-stream past midnight to prove me wrong, as requested by viewers. However, at the exact moment of 0:00, the live stream cut off. When the live stream came back online, the screen showed the old man’s body, bleeding from all seven orifices… “For the last time, I didn’t kill him. I just saw that his time was up.” I leaned back in the squeaky chair of the interrogation room, trying my best to sound patient. It was the third time I’d repeated the same, simple truth. The detective across from me, a man whose face was a roadmap of sleepless nights and bad coffee, was not buying it. His eyes narrowed. He slammed a beefy hand on the metal table, making me jump. “Seraphina,” he growled, “do you hear yourself? Nobody just looks at a man’s face and sees a damn expiration date. Especially not when that man is Silas Croft, a perfectly healthy centenarian who, by some ‘coincidence,’ drops dead in the most gruesome way imaginable on the very night you say he will.” I offered him my most innocent expression. “Most people can’t. That doesn’t mean I can’t.” My life hasn’t exactly been normal. I was left as a baby on the porch of a cabin deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The woman who lived there, my Nana, was what folks in those parts call a “granny woman”—a seer, a healer, a keeper of the old ways. She saw the date on the scrap of paper tucked into my swaddling clothes and said the spirits had marked me for the path. She raised me. We had each other, and that was enough. Then, right after I got my scholarship to college, she vanished. Left a note on the kitchen table saying the mountains were calling her deeper and I shouldn’t look for her. Just like that, my world fell apart. She could have at least left me some cash. How was a broke college freshman supposed to survive? So, I did what any desperate student with a very particular, and mostly illegal, set of skills would do. I ruled out the ghost-busting and curse-lifting Nana had taught me—too much paperwork. But of the five arts, I was always best at reading people. And I’d heard the quickest way for a student to make money was livestreaming. The plan was simple: online psychic readings. One a day to cover my ramen and rent. It was a beautiful plan. Until my very first client. The man, Silas Croft, was a monster wearing a saint’s skin. A life-stealer. He should have died thirty years ago, but there he was, a celebrated hundred-year-old, hale and hearty. The karmic rot clinging to him was blacker than a serial killer’s soul. He’d been stealing years from others to pad out his own. So, the detective was right. It wasn’t a coincidence. If he hadn’t streamed with me, he might have had a little longer. But he did. And I believe in doing a good deed daily. All I did was give the tormented spirits of his victims, the ones forced to linger around him, unable to find peace, a little nudge. A window of opportunity. So, technically, I wasn’t lying. I didn’t kill him. Eventually, they had to let me go. My alibi was rock-solid. My roommate, my RA, and the dorm’s security cameras all confirmed I hadn’t left my room all night. But the second I stepped out of the police station’s front doors, I was swarmed by a group of well-dressed senior citizens in black. “There’s the witch that murdered our father!” one of them shrieked. “Get her!” 2 I sidestepped a surprisingly agile lunge from a man who had to be at least seventy. My evasive maneuver only seemed to make them angrier. A woman with a pearl necklace and venom in her eyes pointed a trembling finger at me. “You killed our father, and you have the nerve to run?” The logic was… questionable. As she spoke, she signaled to the others to surround me. A little further away, a younger man held up his phone, clearly livestreaming my impending beatdown for the whole world to see. They seemed to have forgotten they were standing on the steps of a police station. Before they could even touch my jacket, several officers burst out the doors to restore order. Seeing the police protecting me, one of the women collapsed dramatically onto the pavement and began to wail. “She murdered our father, and now the police are protecting her! Oh, Lord, open up the heavens and strike down these wicked people!” I stood comfortably behind a wall of blue uniforms, watching her performance with genuine admiration. It was top-tier. And while I’m not the Lord, I could certainly grant her wish. I discreetly flicked a small, carved piece of wood from my sleeve in her direction—a little something Nana taught me for encouraging bad weather. A deafening crack of thunder echoed overhead, and a single, brilliant bolt of lightning shot down from a perfectly clear blue sky, striking the ground in the middle of the frantic seniors. They screamed and scattered as the bolt danced between them, a chaotic light show of divine retribution. The strangest part was, it seemed to be targeting them specifically. When an officer tried to pull one of the men away, the lightning simply arced around him, continuing to chase the wailing family members. When it was over, everyone expected to see charred bodies. Instead, the group was rolling on the ground, shrieking in terror, their expensive funeral attire disheveled but completely unharmed. The police just stared, utterly bewildered. That’s when I cleared my throat and spoke in a calm, clear voice. “Officer,” I said. “I’d like to report them. For the murder of multiple children.” 3 Less than ten minutes after being released, I was back inside. At least this time I was in an interview room, not a holding cell. From the hallway, I could faintly hear the Croft siblings proclaiming their innocence. “We’ve already dispatched a unit to the location you described,” said Detective Harding, the same man from before. His face was granite, his eyes sharp enough to cut glass. “This is no longer just a potential homicide. You are making a very serious accusation. You’ll be held legally responsible for what you say.” “I understand,” I said, nodding meekly. I patted my stomach. “Excuse me, officer, but does the department have a lunch budget?” My stomach punctuated the question with a loud, mournful gurgle. For a second, Harding’s professional mask almost cracked. An eyelid twitched. I could practically read the thought bubble over his head: Are you kidding me? Five minutes later, a styrofoam container with Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, and green beans was placed in front of me. I could have cried. Ever since Nana left me with nothing but a hundred twenty-eight dollars and sixty cents to my name, I’d been living on a diet of instant noodles and saltine crackers for weeks. The city police department was quickly becoming my favorite institution. Nothing in this world is more blissful than a full stomach. And of course, someone had to interrupt my moment of joy. Another officer walked in, holding out his phone on speaker. “Harding,” a voice crackled from the other end. “We’ve dug five feet down in every spot she described. There’s nothing here. No sign of disturbance, no bodies.” Harding’s gaze snapped to me, cold and hard. “Seraphina Moon. You have anything to add?” I quickly swallowed my last bite of mashed potatoes. “I couldn’t have been wrong. Are you sure you dug in the right place?” His brow furrowed, clearly warring with himself. “Describe exactly what you saw. Every detail.” “Okay,” I began. “The woman in the red dress, we’ll start with her. The whites of her eyes are visible all the way around the iris. That’s a sign of profound cruelty. Her aura is a rotting, blackish-green, and there are deep, vertical lines of shadow in her karmic field that scream—” “Enough!” he roared, slamming his pen down. “Are you making a mockery of this investigation?” I blinked at him, genuinely confused by his anger. “No, sir. You asked me how I knew, so I’m telling you. Is it the terminology? Are you having trouble following?” I could sympathize. When I used to help people at the cabin, they’d often get confused if I didn’t speak in plain English. Maybe Detective Harding was just embarrassed to admit he was lost. Before I could simplify it further—like just telling him how many ghosts were clinging to each of them—he cut me off. “Ms. Moon, this is a police station, not a sideshow. Stop playing games. Just tell me what you witnessed. The time, the place, the actions of the suspects.” He took a few deep breaths, visibly trying to regain his composure. He picked up his pen. And then I said the one thing that was guaranteed to make him explode. “I didn’t witness them do anything.” I had only seen the ghosts. The dozens of child-spirits huddled behind me right now, cowering from the righteous energy radiating off Detective Harding. If Nana hadn’t warned me that showing a normal person a ghost could literally scare them to death, I would have opened his third eye right then and there. But with this many spirits in the room, it would be a death sentence. Besides, the ghosts couldn’t tell me anything. Their ethereal forms were pierced with old, iron nails, sealing their senses. They were deaf, blind, and mute. Rusted chains were bound to their ankles, tethering them to an ancient oak tree on the Croft estate. It was a particularly nasty kind of folk magic, designed to trap their souls, preventing them from finding peace or telling their stories in the afterlife. The only way to free them was to find their physical remains, pull the nails, and break the chains. This was a problem. Harding didn’t believe me. His phone rang again. It was the team at the dig site, asking if they should pack it in. I could hear frustrated voices in the background. Harding glared at me, then spoke into the phone. “Yeah, sorry to waste your time, guys. Pack it up. We’ve got a false report here. I’ll deal with… Seraphina, what are you doing?” Hearing him call it off, I lunged, snatching the phone from his hand. I held it up to my mouth and shouted, “Keep digging! Turn on your video camera, I’ll show you where to go!” 4 Harding’s patience had finally evaporated. “Seraphina, this is not a game. Give me back my phone.” On the other end of the line, the officers were silent, waiting for his command. Acting on pure instinct, I ripped my shirt open a little and shoved the phone down into my bra. The move seemed to stun Harding into silence more than anything else I’d done all day. He finally found his voice, speaking through gritted teeth. “Seraphina. For the last time. Give. Me. The phone.” I lifted my chin, meeting his furious gaze without flinching. “There are sixteen murdered children buried out there. Are you really going to let them lie in the cold ground forever, without ever getting justice?” He said nothing. He just stared, his eyes boring into me, searching for the lie. The silence was broken by a hesitant voice from the phone, now muffled against my chest. “Uh, Detective? Maybe… maybe we should listen to the girl. Just one more time.”

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I started dating a student from a poor family. A month after we became a couple, he told me he had cancelled his poverty assistance. “Then how are you going to get your living expenses next month?” “Isn’t that what I’m looking for? You’re so rich anyway, let’s give this spot to someone who needs it more.” Ha, so I wasn’t here to date, I was here to help the poor. 1 “Babe, this new sushi place has insane ratings on Yelp, and the aesthetic is perfect for your Insta. I’m taking you this weekend.” I stared at the link my new boyfriend, Alex, had just sent me. A little confused. Wasn’t his family struggling? I knew for a fact he was on a full-ride scholarship that barely covered his living expenses. Why was he suggesting a place where the Omakase started at $200 a person? Maybe he just wants our first real date to be special, I thought. Doesn’t want to seem cheap. “It looks cute,” I typed back, “but honestly, places like that are more for the pictures than the food. We don’t have to go somewhere so expensive. I’m totally down for just getting some tacos or a pizza.” His reply was instant. “No way. This is our first official date since I finally landed you. It’s gotta be special. Plus, the reviews are amazing. It’ll be good, I promise.” Okay, fine. I’d actually been there a couple of times. The food was legitimately good. I was just trying to be considerate of his budget. “Alright,” I replied. “So, are you coming to my dorm, or should I meet you there?” “I’ll come to you. You just call the Uber when it’s time. I can’t have my girl trekking all the way across campus to see me.” A little flutter went through my chest. That was sweet. Alex and I had just made it official last week. We’re in different schools within the university, but we met at a startup competition. He was our team lead. Super dedicated, totally responsible. He didn’t have much, but he was a hustler. His leadership skills were off the charts, and he led our team all the way to first place. Somewhere between all the late-night brainstorming sessions, he asked me out. I said no at first. But he was persistent. And me, a girl who’s been single since, well, forever, eventually caved. There were no flowers, no grand romantic gesture. We were in the campus dining hall. It was the tenth time he’d told me, “Hailey, I really like you. And I’m not giving up.” I looked into his earnest brown eyes and finally sighed. “Okay. Let’s… give it a try?” He whooped and pulled me into a hug right there in front of the salad bar. And that was that. We were a couple. 2 Our dorms were on opposite ends of campus. I was in the South Quad, he was all the way up in North. It was a good fifteen-minute bike ride. So him offering to come all the way to me? It felt nice. Like he was making a real effort. The next day, I called the Uber a few minutes before our agreed-upon time. I watched the little car on the map get closer and closer, but there was no sign of Alex. “Where are you?” I texted. “Almost there! Just passing the football stadium.” “The stadium? The driver is almost here. You’d better bike fast.” “Oh, I’m walking.” “What? We were supposed to meet at nine. It’s 9:05, and you’re still at the stadium? Walking?” “Babe, just tell the driver to wait, it’s fine. I’ll run. Ten minutes, tops.” “Alex, they charge extra for wait time, and I ordered an Uber Black. It’s not cool to make the driver wait. Just grab one of those campus scooters, you’ll make it.” “Ugh, those things are such a rip-off. It’s like, a dollar-fifty for ten minutes!” I felt a flash of annoyance. How was I supposed to respond to that? Tell him he couldn’t afford $1.50? Ask him why he didn’t just leave ten minutes earlier? I took a deep breath. First date. Don’t make it weird. I Venmo’d him $15. “Just get a scooter over here.” The money was accepted instantly. “Thx sugar mama 😉 Let me be your boy toy [cat with heart eyes emoji]” I frowned at the message. It left a weird, sour taste in my mouth, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. Two minutes later, Alex on a scooter and the sleek black SUV pulled up at the exact same time. I gave him a look. I was still a little pissed about him being late. 3 Then he did something that melted me, just a little. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a slightly squashed breakfast taco. “I know you probably didn’t have time for breakfast,” he said, holding it out. “I brought you this.” The annoyance from a moment ago vanished. I took the taco. It was still warm. “See? Good, right?” he beamed. “It’s the bacon, egg, and cheese. Two bucks each.” Okay. So maybe he was cheap about the $1.50 scooter, but he’d spent two dollars on a taco for me. I decided to let the lateness slide. “Why’d you get an Uber Black, though?” he asked as we got in the car. “It’s like, three times the price of a regular one. We could’ve used that money for something else.” “I just prefer it. They’re cleaner and more comfortable.” “Wow,” he said, sinking into the leather seat. “My first time in one of these. Guess I’m getting a taste of the good life with you.” I just smiled and didn’t answer. 4 We had some time to kill before our reservation, so we decided to pop into a Whole Foods. I started grabbing my usual stuff—some snacks I liked, a big container of pre-cut watermelon. Alex’s eyes were wide as he watched me fill the cart. “Babe, what’s your monthly allowance? You’re buying a lot.” I thought for a second. “Well, my mom gives me four thousand, and then my dad usually slips me another two. And my clothing budget is separate.” “Whoa,” he whistled. “You really are a sugar mama. My parents give me four hundred a month, and I get another four hundred from my scholarship. You get ten times what I do.” Hearing him lay it out like that made me feel a little awkward. “Hey, you know what?” I said. “We could just go to that new ramen place I was telling you about. It’s super good and way cheaper.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Nah. Ramen’s whatever. I’ve never had real, high-end sushi before. Our first date has to be memorable.” If he was so insistent, who was I to argue? I made a mental note to discreetly help him out with his expenses back on campus. Plus, his birthday was coming up. I could get him a really nice gift. I noticed he hadn’t put a single thing in the cart for himself. “Aren’t you getting anything?” I asked. “Me? Oh, okay. Well, thank you, sugar mama.” Huh? Thank me for what? I was about to find out. 5 It was like a switch flipped. Alex went into what I can only describe as a supermarket sweep mode. Protein bars, Red Bull, instant noodles, bags of chips, fancy imported fruit—he was tossing things into the cart like it was the apocalypse and this was the last grocery store on Earth. “Okay, let’s go,” he said finally, looking pleased with his haul. “Time for sushi.” At the checkout, the cashier asked, “All together?” I was about to say separate, but Alex beat me to it. “Yep, all together. Can we get two of the big reusable bags, please?” “That’ll be $286.50,” the cashier said. I glanced over at Alex, who was busily bagging up his groceries. I sighed. “I’ve got it.” “Would you like delivery?” “Yes, please,” I said. “Oh, no, no, we can carry it,” Alex said quickly. I tugged on his sleeve, confused. “Why not just have it delivered?” “It costs extra,” he said, hoisting the two heavy bags. “Besides, they only deliver to the campus mailroom. You can just give me the delivery fee, and I’ll carry it straight to your dorm room for you.” I just… laughed. It was easier than arguing. We could take an Uber back; it wouldn’t be that bad. At the restaurant, I wasn’t that hungry after the greasy breakfast taco. Plus, I figured if I ordered light, it would be less of a hit to his wallet. I ordered a small appetizer and a couple of pieces of nigiri. “Is that all you’re getting?” Alex asked, looking concerned. “Are you on a diet? You’re already so skinny. You don’t need to lose weight. I’ll still like you even if you gain a few pounds.” I took a sip of water, not wanting to get into it. Then I watched as Alex proceeded to order half the menu. Toro, uni, wagyu beef, caviar. It was a spectacle. I put a hand on his arm. “Don’t order so much. We’ll never finish it all.” He puffed out his chest. “Don’t worry. I have a big appetite. Nothing will go to waste.” And he kept ordering. I just shrugged. His money, his choice. 6 My appetizer, a delicate pumpkin panna cotta, arrived first. Before I could even pick up my spoon, Alex had dug his own spoon in and taken a huge bite. “Eh, it’s okay,” he said, chewing with his mouth open. “Not as good as I expected.” I silently pulled the rest of my appetizer closer to me. We were still new. I wasn’t ready for the shared-saliva stage of the relationship. Next, he attacked the sushi platter I’d ordered for myself. He didn’t even finish a single piece. He’d take one bite of each, then move on to the next. “Just taste-testing for you,” he explained. “They’re all different.” He chomped down on a piece of tuna. “Mmm, this one’s good. I only took a little bite, you can have the rest.” A piece of rice flew out of his mouth and landed on my panna cotta. I felt my stomach turn. “You know what?” I said, pushing the plate away. “I’m not really feeling rice right now. You can have it. I’ll just order something else.” “See, this is what I’m talking about. You order food and don’t eat it. Good thing I’m here, or it would all go to waste. A boyfriend is basically a human garbage disposal. But you shouldn’t be so wasteful when I’m not around. Or you could just pack it up and bring it back for me.” He kept talking, and eating, and occasionally spraying food particles in my direction. “How are you?” he asked, seeing my expression. “Fine,” I mumbled. “Just going to the restroom.” 7 I hid in the bathroom for a solid ten minutes, texting my best friend a long, incoherent rant about everything that was wrong with the date. When I came back out, the table looked like a war zone. I just sat there and watched him eat. “You should eat something,” he said, gesturing with a piece of shrimp tempura. “Here, have some of mine.” I shook my head. “I’m good. Not hungry.” He shrugged and continued his monologue. “You know, for how expensive this place is, it’s really not that special… You really shouldn’t skip meals like this, it’s bad for you… Look at all this food you ordered that you didn’t even touch. You really need to thank me for being here to finish it.” “You’re right,” I said, my voice flat, inching my chair away from the splash zone. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he was done. “Alright, let’s pay and head back,” he said, standing up. “Sounds good,” I replied. “You go ahead, I just need to use the restroom again.” “Waiter!” he called out, flagging someone down. “Check, please!” Then he turned and headed for the men’s room. A server appeared at my table. “Your total is $562. How would you like to pay?” Even for a relationship newbie like me, the red flags were now a full-blown marching band parade. Who goes to the bathroom the exact moment the check arrives? And the grocery bill… I did a quick mental calculation. My stuff was probably only about a hundred bucks. This meal, I’d had exactly one bite of. I was so stupid. I’d told him we could go somewhere cheaper. Just then, my phone buzzed. A text from Alex. “My stomach is killing me. Might be a while. You can just wait for me at a boba shop or something.” I didn’t reply. I turned to the server. “Actually, I’m still hungry. Can I get a new table and order some more food? And then you can just add it all to the same check.” “Of course,” she said. I thought for a moment. “On second thought, can I just make it a to-go order?” I ordered all my favorite dishes. By the time the server brought out the neatly packed bags, the Postmates driver I’d summoned was waiting outside. “Can you take all of this, plus those two grocery bags, to this address?” I said, handing him everything. “No problem,” he said. As I was about to walk out, the server stopped me. “Ma’am, with the new order, your total is now $831.” I smiled sweetly. “The gentleman I was with is paying. He’s in the restroom.” I walked toward the bathroom and called out, loud enough for him to hear. “Alex! I’m thirsty, I’m gonna go grab a boba tea!” His voice came back, muffled. “Okay, babe! I’ll be out in a minute!” I gave the server a little wave. She nodded, understanding perfectly. “Right this way, ma’am.” And she escorted me to the door.

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A new teacher started at my daughter’s preschool, and the parent group chat was blowing up with praise. Ms. Albright was a miracle worker, they said. Their kids were suddenly behaving like little angels. Polite, obedient, even eating their vegetables. But that night, my daughter Lily curled up next to me and whispered a secret. “Mommy, they’re only being good ’cause they’re scared to die.” “Leo didn’t listen today. He snuck some potato chips during nap time, and they took him away and killed him.” Her voice was small but serious. “When he died, his mouth was full of chips, and his tummy was all puffed up like a balloon.” I felt a cold chill despite her little body being warm against mine. I quickly texted Jessica, Leo’s mom. We live in the same apartment complex. [Hey Jessica, just checking in. Is everything okay with Leo?] She replied almost instantly with a picture of Leo sitting at their dinner table, dutifully eating his broccoli. [What are you talking about, hon? He’s being such a good boy! Better than ever!] Relief washed over me, quickly followed by annoyance. My daughter was making up horrible stories. But as I went to scold her, Lily pointed a tiny finger at my phone screen. “Mommy, that’s not Leo. Isn’t he a lefty? Why is he using his right hand?” My heart skipped a beat. I zoomed in on the photo. Sure enough, the boy who looked exactly like Leo was skillfully using a fork with his right hand. We’d had a playdate just last week, and I vividly remembered Jessica complaining about how she couldn’t get Leo to stop using his left hand for everything. It drove her crazy, she’d said. And now, just a few days later, he’s switched? Completely? I turned to my daughter, my voice stern. “Lily, you have to tell Mommy the truth. Were you just making that up?” Lily’s big blue eyes welled up. “I really saw him die, Mommy. I’m not lying.” Hearing those words from my five-year-old sent a shiver down my spine. I knew my daughter. She had a wild imagination, but she wasn’t a liar. Not about something like this. If she was telling the truth… An idea surfaced. A child her age doesn’t fully grasp the concept of death. Maybe what she saw was something else. “Honey,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “You know the difference between being dead and just being asleep, right?” She nodded, her expression serious. “I’m not a baby, Mommy. My storybooks say what dead is. I know.” The unease in my gut tightened. “Okay. Then tell me exactly what you saw. How did you see them take Leo?” Lily tilted her head, remembering. “A man just showed up. He had a big cartoon mask on, one of those mascot heads.” “It was nap time, and I couldn’t sleep. I was peeking, and I saw Leo eating chips from his lunchbox. The man grabbed him before he could even finish a handful.” Fear crept onto her face as she continued. “Leo always calls me silly names, but I don’t really hate him. I was worried. So when Ms. Albright wasn’t looking, I snuck out to find him. I found him in the empty classroom down the hall… he was just lying on the floor. He wasn’t moving at all.” “Did you tell a teacher?” “Ms. Albright is new. I don’t know her that well. I was scared.” “Did you see Leo again later in class?” Her little face scrunched up in concentration. “I… I don’t remember. I was so scared, the rest of the day felt all fuzzy.” I pulled her into a tight hug. “It’s okay, sweetie. You’re safe. But if anything like that ever happens again, you tell Mommy right away.” I poured her a glass of milk and put on her favorite cartoon, trying to get her mind off it. Just as she was settling down, our doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole. It was Jessica, Leo’s mom. I opened the door, and she beamed at me, holding a tote bag. “My Leo is finally growing up!” she gushed, stepping inside. “I’ve never seen him eat his dinner so well! That new teacher is a godsend, I swear. She fixed his picky eating in one day!” I hesitated, then decided I had to say something. “Jessica, it’s great that he’s behaving, but… for it to happen so suddenly… are you sure he wasn’t scared into it? Or maybe bullied?” I told her what Lily had seen, framing it as my own theory. That maybe some staff member in a costume was using cruel methods to discipline the kids, and that Lily had witnessed a “punishment” and misinterpreted it as death. The most logical explanation was that there was a predator in that school, secretly terrorizing our children. Jessica’s cheerful expression vanished. The tote bag slipped from her hand, its contents thudding softly onto the floor. Without another word, she turned and rushed out the door, back toward her apartment. I figured she was going to talk to Leo and get to the bottom of it. Then we could confront the school together. A few minutes later, my phone rang. It was her. I barely said hello before she started screaming at me. “Are you serious? I can’t believe your daughter is such a pathological liar! Making up such a sick, twisted joke!” “I just asked Leo! He said he slept through the entire nap time! None of what your daughter said happened! She’s the one who needs help, not my son! You’re just jealous that Leo is finally behaving himself!” Her accusations left me speechless. I glanced at Lily, who was sitting quietly, completely absorbed in her cartoon. Could she really have made it all up? I sighed and spent the next five minutes apologizing profusely, trying to smooth things over with an inconsolable Jessica. My husband, Mark, got home late from work. After he’d showered and we were lying in bed, I told him everything. He burst out laughing. “Honey, you know Lily has an overactive imagination. You can’t take it so seriously.” He reasoned, “Kids her age can’t tell the difference between dreams and reality. She probably saw it all in a nap-time nightmare and woke up thinking it was real. Besides, there are security cameras everywhere in that preschool. Who would be stupid enough to grab a kid in the middle of the day? Stop scaring yourself.” His logic was sound. It made perfect sense. Lily loved her adventure stories; I’d bought her dozens of them. Maybe she just had a vivid, weird dream. Jessica had come by earlier to return one of those books. My anxiety finally eased. Mark hugged me. “It’s okay. I’ll drop Lily off tomorrow. I’ll have a little chat with her on the way.” The next morning, Mark texted me from the preschool. He said he’d run into Jessica at the gate, and they’d cleared the air. The kids were even holding hands walking into class. [Thanks, babe,] I texted back. [You’re my rock. I would’ve obsessed over this for days without you.] I cleaned up the apartment, and with some time to kill, decided to treat myself to a manicure. I was sitting in the salon, debating between two shades of red, when my phone started buzzing nonstop. A quick glance showed it was the parent group chat. In less than a minute, there were 99+ notifications. My blood ran cold. I opened the chat. It was a flood of messages, all centered around a frantic series of texts from Jessica. [My poor baby! He’s gone! He was such a good, obedient boy, how could he commit suicide? Somebody did this to him! Somebody killed my son!] I scrolled up frantically. During afternoon free-play, Leo had suddenly walked over to the classroom window, pushed it open, and jumped from the third floor. He was killed instantly. Leo was really dead. I thought of Lily’s words from yesterday, and my whole body started to shake. Was this a coincidence? Or was there really someone in that school, secretly preying on our children? Lily was telling the truth. My hands trembling, I sent a private message to Jessica. [Jessica, I am so, so sorry for your loss. Please, we have to find who did this. Remember what I told you yesterday? That man in the mask might be real!] A moment later, a new notification popped up in the group chat. It was a screenshot of my message to her. Jessica had posted it for everyone to see. Her follow-up message was pure venom. [The police are checking the security footage. And you know who the last person to talk to my son was? HER DAUGHTER. LILY.] [He talked to her for a few seconds, then walked straight to the window and jumped. And yesterday, her mother was feeding me some crazy story about how Lily saw my son die! This family is involved! I want the school to investigate them!] The chat exploded. Parents saw that my daughter had somehow “predicted” Leo’s death and the accusations started flying. I was panicking, trying to type a response. [No one wanted this to happen. My daughter is innocent. Please don’t spread malicious rumors about a child! We will cooperate fully with the police to prove our innocence!] I texted Mark what was happening and jumped in a cab, racing to the preschool. Because of the suspicious circumstances and Jessica’s insistence, the police were already there. They put us in an empty classroom to ask questions. Lily, as the last person to speak with Leo, was first. I sat with her. She clutched my sleeve. “Mommy, why do these men want to talk to me? I’m scared.” “It’s okay, baby,” I whispered, squeezing her hand. “They’re here to help. Just tell the truth.” She nodded and sat in the small chair across from two officers. “Lily, don’t be nervous,” one of them said gently. “We just have a few questions for you.” “Okay.” “The security camera shows you talking to Leo right before he went to the window. Can you tell us what you talked about?” Lily thought for a moment. “Nothing really… He said he was really hungry, that he didn’t get enough to eat. I remembered the chocolate bar Daddy put in my backpack this morning, so I asked him if he wanted it.” “He said yes at first, but then he shook his head and said no, he couldn’t eat it… I didn’t understand, so I didn’t say anything else. He just stood there, staring at nothing, whispering ‘can’t eat it, can’t eat it’… and then he jumped.” Her voice trembled. “Officer, is Leo really, really dead this time?” The other officer picked up on the keyword. “‘This time’? Why did you say ‘this time,’ Lily?” Lily glanced at me. With a nod of encouragement, she told them the story about the man in the cartoon mask all over again. The officers took it seriously. One of them immediately made a call to have the nap-room footage from the previous day reviewed. A few minutes later, he got a response. “Detective, footage from yesterday’s nap time is clear. No abnormalities. The boy, Leo, was in his cot the entire time. Never left.” Lily’s eyes widened. “But I saw him! The man with the cartoon head took him away!” “Officers, please,” I begged. “Could you check again? What if someone is targeting the children?” The detective turned to me, his expression patient. “Ma’am, we understand your concern. But the video evidence shows that what your daughter believes she saw did not happen. We spoke with Leo’s mother, and she mentioned your daughter has a strong interest in adventure storybooks. It’s possible some of the content is a bit too intense, causing her to blur fantasy and reality.” “We will continue to investigate the cause of Leo’s death. We may need to speak with you and your daughter again.” When the interview was over, Mark was waiting for us outside the room. He wrapped an arm around me and took Lily’s hand, guiding us through the hallway, which was now filled with whispering parents pointing fingers at us. Leo’s entire family was gathered at the school entrance, screaming for answers. When Jessica saw us, her head snapped up. Her eyes were bloodshot and full of pure hatred, fixed on my daughter. If the police weren’t holding her back, I have no doubt she would have lunged at us. I understood her pain, but my daughter was innocent. We hurried to our car and locked the doors, finally shutting out the noise and the hostility. Mark hit the gas, and we sped away. He gripped the steering wheel, shaking his head. “Jessica’s losing it. How could she think Lily would hurt anyone? I’ll tell you what this is—she pushed that kid too hard, he developed psychological issues, and he jumped.” “Mark,” I said sharply, nodding toward the back seat. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Thankfully, kids are resilient. Lily, who had been so tense just moments before, was already calm, flipping through a picture book she’d left in the car. Seeing her safe eased some of the tension in my chest, but the knot of fear remained. I replayed the last two days in my mind. Lily’s vision of the mystery man. Her insistence that the boy in the photo wasn’t the real Leo. And then witnessing his suicide. There was a thread connecting it all, but my mind was too jumbled to see it clearly. Just then, Lily held up her book, pointing to a page. “Mommy,” she said brightly. “I know how you can die and come back to life.” I froze. Her small, clear voice continued. “You just have to fake it.” I took the book from her. It was a twisted, modern version of Snow White. In this story, the princess fakes her own death to test the prince’s love. But the Seven Dwarfs, not in on the plan, see what they believe is a real death. They tell the Evil Queen, who then finds the “dead” princess and makes sure the fake death becomes a real one. As I finished the last sentence, it was like a floodlight turned on in my mind. Suddenly, all the scattered threads snapped together into a single, horrifying tapestry. And just like that, I knew who the killer was.

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01 Hearing those words from my CEO, a man who clearly wasn’t operating on the same planet as the rest of us, made a muscle in my jaw twitch. One in the morning. In a few hours, I’d have to get up and do it all over again. Not even a damn robot could keep this pace. My body was screaming for rest. Figuring the worst he could do was chew me out tomorrow, I ignored him, rolled over, and fell back into a dead sleep. I didn’t wake up until nine. Nine glorious, uninterrupted AM. I dragged myself out of bed, my eyes burning from staring at a screen all day, every day. That dreaded number, 40, was creeping up on me, and I could feel it in my bones. Eight hours of sleep wasn’t a luxury anymore; it was a bare minimum I rarely got. I grabbed a granola bar, chugged some coffee, and headed to the office. I work for a tech company in Austin. Our official hours are a “flexible” 10 AM to 10 PM. “Leo, you finally made it,” Brenda from accounting whispered as I passed her desk, her eyes wide. “Watch your back today. Sterling went on a rampage this morning. Heads were rolling.” I nodded, trying to look concerned, but I wasn’t too worried. I was an old-timer here, over a decade with the company. A new-money CEO, parachuted in to “optimize efficiency,” could yell at me, but he couldn’t just get rid of me. Or so I thought. The moment I sat down, Sterling appeared at my cubicle. “Leo. My office. Now.” My stomach dropped. This felt different. “Leo,” he began, not even waiting for me to sit. “You’re a veteran here. How can you have such a complete lack of professional commitment, of ownership?” He got straight to the point. “You left around ten, which means you were home by one. Factoring in your commute, you put in, what, an hour and a half of overtime? Let’s round down to one, generously. Take away time for breaks, zoning out, water cooler chat… that basically means you did zero overtime. That’s not the kind of dedication we expect. The board and I are very disappointed.” I felt a surge of adrenaline. “Mr. Sterling, that’s not fair,” I stammered. “I was exhausted yesterday. We’re in the middle of renovating our house, and on top of that, I’m just… I’m not 25 anymore. I can’t pull all-nighters like I used to. But I swear, yesterday was a one-off. You can check my keycard logs. I’m usually one of the last ones to leave. I see the sunrise over the highway more than I see my own wife.” “Tired?” He let out a cold, humorless laugh. “You’re tired? Who isn’t tired? It’s one in the morning, and you’re going home to sleep? After a measly twelve-hour day?” He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “If you can’t handle the pace, Leo, maybe it’s time to step aside and make room for someone who can. Someone hungry. You could use the rest, right?” “Wait… what?” I asked, my blood running cold. 02 And just like that, his true endgame was on the table. “Are you… are you firing me?” I asked, my voice trembling. “No, no, no,” Mr. Sterling said, shaking his head with a phony smile. “We don’t fire family, Leo. You’re graduating. You’re graduating from this company and moving on to give back to society. With your skills and experience, I have no doubt you’ll build something amazing out there, something that will make all of us proud.” He paused, letting the corporate nonsense hang in the air. “Considering the immense investment this company has made in you over the years, we’re hoping you’ll do the right thing and tender your resignation.” My mind went blank. So that’s why he was having this chat, not HR. He didn’t want to pay my severance package. I started here right out of college. More than a decade. I’d poured my life into this place, from a scrappy startup to a publicly-traded company. I wouldn’t say I was a hero, but I damn well kept the lights on more than once. I remembered a time, during the last recession, when I single-handedly ran three departments for almost a year because we couldn’t afford to hire. I was always in the top five for overtime. It’s how I survived for so long. And now, because my body was finally starting to rebel, he wanted to toss me out? And the timing couldn’t be worse. I had a mortgage, a car payment, rent on a temporary apartment while the house was being renovated. My wife was pregnant. I was stretched thinner than I’d ever been in my life. And these bastards didn’t even want to give me the severance I was legally owed. They wanted me to just quit. Squeeze the orange dry and toss the peel, right? My vision started to blur with rage. I wanted to leap across the desk and smash that smug look off his face. But then I thought of my mortgage. My car payment. The baby. My voice softened, cracking with desperation. “Mr. Sterling, please, it was a misunderstanding. I can still grind, I promise. Yesterday was an exception, I wasn’t feeling well. Ask anyone on the team. Just give me another chance. I won’t let you down.” My voice was practically a whimper. A buddy of mine in Seattle had jumped off a bridge last year after losing his job. The mortgage on a house that was suddenly underwater and a mountain of debt had crushed him. I had a family. I couldn’t let that happen. 03 “I’m sorry, Leo. The decision is final,” Sterling said, his face a cold, indifferent mask. “Get your things in order. We’ll expect your resignation letter by the end of the day.” “Is this about the Christmas party?” I blurted out. He flinched, just for a second. “I can apologize. I can even sign an NDA.” Last year, at the company Christmas party, I’d taken a wrong turn looking for the bathroom and walked in on him and his executive assistant in a… very compromising position. I never said a word to anyone. The office rumor mill was completely silent on the matter. He had to know I’d kept my mouth shut. “This is a purely professional decision, Leo. It has nothing to do with my personal life,” he said, but the tight, vicious little smile playing on his lips told a different story. “Mr. Sterling, please,” I begged one last time. “My wife is pregnant. Our baby is due in two months. I’m the only one with an income. You have to understand.” At that moment, if he’d told me to get on my knees, I would have done it without a second thought. “Your wife is pregnant and you’re slacking off?” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “Leo, your priorities are all wrong. Maybe you can reflect on that at your next job. Don’t make the same mistake twice.” He was a monster. He didn’t give a damn if I lived or died. Seeing that his heart was made of stone, my resolve hardened. The desperation turned into cold, hard fury. “No,” I said, my voice firm and clear. “I’m not resigning. You want me gone? You’ll have to fire me.” If they fired me, I’d at least get a severance package to tide me over. And if they decided the payout was too expensive and kept me on, well, that worked too. I had made my decision. Sterling chuckled, as if I’d just told the funniest joke in the world. “You tech guys are all the same. So rigid. So black and white.” He leaned back in his chair. “Leo, there are a million ways to make an employee want to resign.” His words hung in the air, and my heart sank into my shoes. 04 I never wanted a war with the company. A guppy can’t fight a shark. But I was cornered. I could starve, but my wife and my unborn child couldn’t. The bank that held my mortgage certainly couldn’t. If my life was going to be ruined, I was at least going to get what I was owed. A couple of weeks went by in a haze of anxiety. Then, I found out what Sterling meant by “ways.” When I got my monthly pay stub, I saw the performance review section. In bright red letters was a grade I’d never seen before: D-. A ‘C’ was barely passing; it meant you got your base salary and nothing else. A D-? It meant that not only was I getting zero bonus, but they were also docking my pay. I was the first employee in company history to receive a D-minus. An email went out to the entire company, a “notice of underperformance,” publicly shaming me. They took my money and my dignity in one fell swoop. My paycheck wasn’t even enough to cover the mortgage payment. I stormed down to HR. The director, a woman who usually avoided eye contact, explained that my review was personally determined by Mr. Sterling and that he had the “final say.” So I went to his office. He was ready for me. He had a list. He systematically tore me apart across a dozen metrics: productivity, innovation, professional ethics, growth rate, teamwork. “See, Leo? I told you that you weren’t keeping up with the company’s dynamic pace,” he said with that infuriatingly calm smile. “The metrics don’t lie.” “We have a shark mentality here. It’s a meritocracy. For there to be winners, there have to be losers. I don’t like giving you a D-, but when ranked against everyone else in the company, your performance was at the very bottom.” “The Chairman himself saw the numbers,” he added, twisting the knife. “He was so angry he wanted to make a public example of you. I’m the one who talked him down to a simple company-wide notice. I saved you what little face you have left. You should be thanking me.” Listening to his shameless lies, I just turned and walked out. He wanted to say I was bad at my job? Fine. He was about to find out just how bad I could be. 05 If Mr. Sterling wanted to critique my job performance, then I was going to give him a whole lot of my job performance to critique. My direct reporting line was to him. And lately, he’d taken to ignoring any report I submitted, letting it sit in his inbox for days. I wasn’t having it anymore. I opened the company-wide Slack channel. @channel Hey @The Chairman @Mr. Sterling, my Q3 performance report has been in your inbox for two days. I see the marketing team’s report, submitted yesterday, has already been approved. Just wondering about the status of ours? Thanks! I didn’t just tag him; I tagged the big boss, the Chairman of the board. Guys like Sterling, these professional managers, live and die by what the man who hired them thinks. They care more about the Chairman’s opinion than their own family’s. As for pissing off the Chairman? What did I have to lose? If he was a good guy, he wouldn’t have hired a shark like Sterling to gut his own loyal employees in the first place. Within seconds, a reply from Sterling popped up in the channel: Handling it. Less than five minutes later, my report was rejected. I could feel his rage through the screen. This was exactly what I expected. How else could he prove my “poor performance” if he didn’t reject my work? But I wasn’t worried. The show was just getting started. At 1 AM that night, I calmly re-submitted my revised report. And once again, I went to the company-wide Slack. @The Chairman @Mr. Sterling, revised report submitted. Ready for review at your earliest convenience. This time, Sterling replied directly in the channel: Leo, you can DM me for things like this. No need to ping the entire company every time. The second his message appeared, I uploaded a series of screenshots: my unanswered direct messages to him, sitting there unread, while conversations with other employees from the same time period were clearly answered. @Mr. Sterling, I would, but you never respond to my DMs. I notice you respond to others, though, so it’s hard not to feel like I’m being singled out. This seemed like the only way to get a response. The channel went quiet, but I could feel hundreds of my coworkers across the city turning into digital voyeurs, grabbing their popcorn. I’d been there for over a decade. People knew me. They knew who to believe. That’s slander. Do not make baseless accusations, he shot back, his panic palpable. 06 Then can you explain why the report from the admin department, which was submitted much later than mine, was approved, while you haven’t even opened my file? I typed back, keeping my tone polite and professional. He had no answer. I didn’t get into a flame war with him. That would be unprofessional. I simply reminded him that the project was on a deadline and I was awaiting his approval. A minute later, the report was rejected again. The next second, I was on the phone with the Chairman. A minute after that, an emergency video conference was initiated. Me, Sterling, and a few other senior managers. I calmly presented my case, doing a side-by-side comparison of my report with similar reports from previous years, as well as with reports from other departments this year. Very quickly, my report was approved. The Chairman looked furious. He was mad at me for waking him up and “disrupting team harmony.” But he looked even madder at Sterling, a CEO who couldn’t even manage his own direct report. From that day on, I had my system. Any message I sent to Sterling that wasn’t answered promptly resulted in a public ping in the main Slack channel, tagging him and the Chairman. Midnight, 3 AM, it didn’t matter. My new motto was “Never leave for tomorrow what you can do today.” Under the watchful eye of the entire company, he had no choice but to respond. Sometimes he’d try to play it cool. Leo, I’m in a meeting. My response: @Mr. Sterling As the Chairman said at our last all-hands, efficiency is key. We’re all busy, putting in our 12+ hours a day. I’m just trying to help streamline the process for everyone. Any time a report was rejected more than once, I bypassed him completely. I’d request an “urgent executive review” via video conference, inviting the Chairman. I’d have all my data ready, laying out the objective quality of my work for all the VPs to see. It saved me the trouble of being told my work “wasn’t up to standard.” My favorite time to request his input was between 3 AM and 7 AM. If he didn’t reply, I’d go straight to Slack and start a discussion about our “hustle culture.” I’d passively-aggressively mention how he always pushed us to work until 2 or 3 AM, and how inspiring it was. The implication was clear: the employees were grinding, but the CEO was asleep. He started to look ten years older. But the person who broke first wasn’t him. It was the Chairman. 07 The Chairman simply couldn’t take it anymore. He was an old man. He didn’t have the energy of a 30-year-old. That’s why he hired a professional manager in the first place. But now, thanks to Sterling, his life was more stressful than ever. His phone buzzed at all hours of the night, and his inbox was constantly flooded with emails from me, on which he was always CC’d. I was creating a meticulous paper trail of my work. Naturally, he was getting pissed at Sterling. And at me. “Leo,” he said, his voice weary during a 5 AM video call I had initiated. “It’s great that you’re so dedicated, but you need to rest, too.” He was trying to give me a hint. I played dumb. “Mr. Chairman, I appreciate your concern. But Mr. Sterling gave my performance last month a D-minus and announced it to the entire company. He said I wasn’t keeping up. So this month, I’m doubling my efforts. I can’t let the company down.” I took a breath and continued, laying it on thick. “Besides, our company has always had a shark mentality. Perform or be eliminated. I’m just trying to perform so I don’t get eliminated.” “And as you always say, sir, we should treat the company like it’s our own. Take ownership. Proactively look for work. I’ve really taken that philosophy to heart, and I’m just trying to put it into practice.” I said it all with a dead-serious face. The Chairman was speechless. “Well… just report to your direct supervisor,” he grumbled, clearly wanting to go back to bed. He liked calling meetings in the middle of the night, but he sure as hell didn’t like being dragged into them. “But sir, don’t you remember? You yourself announced our new ‘flat management structure’ a few months ago,” I said, my voice full of false sincerity. “And at the Christmas party, you personally promised that your door was always open, that we could come to you with any problem, anytime. You wouldn’t go back on your word, would you?” I leaned in closer to the webcam. “Frankly, sir, I’m concerned about Mr. Sterling’s work ethic. I often send him messages and reports, and he won’t respond until hours later, usually after he’s woken up in the morning. Is that acceptable? Does work stop just because you’re asleep? He’s only working twelve-hour days. How does he even find the time to sleep?” The Chairman said one thing, and I countered with three. And every single one of my points was built on the very corporate gospel he and Sterling had been preaching for months. He had no defense. So, naturally, all his fury turned on the one person he could blame. The CEO.

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At my son Kevin’s engagement party, his fiancée, Ashley, demanded I produce my children’s birth certificates. She wanted proof that Kevin and my daughter, Chloe, were actually twins. I pulled them out of my purse—the worn, folded documents from twenty-five years ago, detailing their birth dates, blood types, and their relationship to me, their mother. But Ashley wasn’t satisfied. She insisted they were forgeries, that I was trying to deceive her. She wanted to take the originals to have them “verified.” She claimed their relationship was “too close,” not like a normal brother and sister. She demanded they take a DNA test to prove they were siblings. In front of our friends and her family, her words were a poison dart, painting my children with the ugliest kind of suspicion. How could they ever hold their heads up again? And what did this say about me, the woman who raised them? I refused flatly. “If you can’t trust us, then maybe there shouldn’t be an engagement,” I said, my voice shaking with anger. “There’s no need to humiliate my family in public.” But then Kevin, my own son, turned to me, his eyes pleading. “Mom, please,” he begged. “Just let us do the DNA test. Once we have concrete proof, Ashley will stop. I promise.” 1 It all started when Ashley began crying to her parents that Kevin would “disappear” for hours whenever he went out to dinner with his twin sister. She hinted at something sordid, something unnatural, which led to this insane demand for their birth certificates. I was furious. What kind of position did that put my children in? I knew for a fact Kevin had kept her in the loop. I’d seen the texts. He sent pictures, replied instantly. But for Ashley, “disappearing” meant any moment he wasn’t actively showering her with attention. I understood insecurity. I really did. I told Kevin to invite her along, to let her get to know Chloe over dinner. But Ashley’s suspicions only festered. She kept demanding to see the birth certificates. Finally, Kevin caved and sent her a photo of the documents. She claimed it could be photoshopped and demanded the originals. Kevin told her I kept them under lock and key, and that if he asked for them, I’d know about her accusations and it would sour our relationship. So, she chose the engagement party to stage her drama. There she was, sobbing in her mother’s arms. Her father stared daggers at me. Kevin looked helpless, and Chloe’s face was flushed with a mixture of rage and shame. “Sarah, please,” Ashley’s mother said, trying to sound reasonable. “We’re all going to be family. Just show her the papers so we can put her mind at ease.” I looked at the mess this party had become and sighed. Fine. We’re going to be family. I just wanted the nightmare to end. I handed the birth certificates to Ashley. But after scrutinizing them, she snatched them up and stuffed them into her purse. “You handed these over way too easily,” she sneered. “How do I know they’re real? And even if they are, it just says ‘son’ and ‘daughter.’ They don’t even look alike. What if Chloe isn’t your daughter at all? What if you adopted her to be some kind of… companion for your son? I’m not walking into that kind of hell.” She declared, “I’m taking these to get authenticated. I’ll give them back in a few days.” 2 Her words hung in the air, thick and venomous. Not only was she stealing official documents, but she was doubling down on her disgusting insinuations. Saying I adopted a girl to be a “companion” for my son? Had she been watching too many twisted TV dramas? I was a single mom who lost her husband years ago. Life was hard enough. Who in their right mind would spend all that time, money, and energy raising a child that wasn’t their own, just for some perverse purpose? And the “they don’t look alike” argument was ridiculous. They were fraternal twins. A boy and a girl. Of course they didn’t look identical, but anyone with eyes could see the same jawline, the same shape of their eyes. They were cut from the same cloth. Even a saint would have lost her temper. I had already swallowed my pride and shown her the proof. What more did she want? “I’ve shown you the documents,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “If you still don’t believe it, that’s your problem. If you’re this worried, maybe you should just call off the wedding.” “Mom!” Before Ashley could even respond, Kevin jumped in. “How can you say that?” Emboldened by his support, Ashley’s smugness grew. “Why are you getting so defensive, Sarah? I just want to know the truth. You’re acting like you have something to hide.” Her conviction swayed some of the guests. I could feel the hotel staff’s eyes on me, their glances filled with morbid curiosity. My vision started to blur. Chloe, bless her heart, grabbed my arm, her own body trembling with rage. “Mom, your blood pressure,” she whispered. “Breathe. Don’t let her get to you.” My sister-in-law, Susan, and other relatives quickly came to my defense. “We were there when these two were born!” Susan exclaimed. “We saw them in the hospital nursery. Of course they’re siblings!” She pulled out her phone. “Look, I still have the pictures from the day they were born. Their hospital wristbands have their names right on them.” Another cousin chimed in, “Yeah, and we all saw the ultrasound scans! Sarah keeps everything. She has boxes of their childhood things at home.” My relatives passed the phone around, showing everyone the photos. For a moment, I thought the madness was over. But when the phone reached Ashley, she scoffed. “Photos can be faked. How convenient that you just happen to have these pictures ready right when I ask.” She looked around the silent room. “And even if those babies in the picture are siblings, who’s to say those babies are them?” Even Ashley’s own mother looked embarrassed, tugging at her sleeve. But Ashley took our stunned silence as an admission of guilt. “Since you won’t let me verify the birth certificates, there’s only one other way,” she announced triumphantly. “Make them take a DNA test.” She then added the final, insane flourish. “And to make sure you don’t fake the results, they have to do it at every single major accredited lab in the state!” I turned to my son. “Kevin, this wedding is off. We’re going home. I will not let you marry a psychopath.” I tried to pull him toward the door, but he resisted. He looked at me with that same pleading expression. “Mom, just let us do it,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Once we have the results, Ashley will know for sure, and this will all be over.” 3 For a second, I thought I’d misheard him. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking?” I whispered, horrified. “Do you know what this implies? You’re asking your own sister to submit to a test to prove she’s not your lover. How are we supposed to live with that shame?” “She wants us to do it at every lab in the state! Those records are official. Do you understand what that means?” It meant that even if we were proven innocent, the accusation would be permanently logged, a stain we could never wash away, demanded by our own son and brother. An accusation from a stranger is one thing. But from your own flesh and blood? It was a betrayal I couldn’t comprehend. “Kevin!” Chloe cried out, her voice breaking. But he wouldn’t look at her. “Ashley’s just insecure,” he mumbled. “She doesn’t know you guys. After we’re married, it’ll be different.” My head was spinning. “How can you be so naive? If she was going to believe anything, she would have believed the birth certificates or the photos. If she’s determined not to believe, she’ll find a reason to doubt the DNA results too!” Ashley pouted. “You know, in this crazy world, anything can happen. Even between a brother and a…” SLAP! I couldn’t stop myself. The sound echoed through the silent room. “By your logic, anything can happen between you and your father, too!” I screamed, my control completely gone. “Between your husband and your mother! Between all three of you!” I was so furious I just used her own twisted reasoning to hurt her back. “You sick little bitch!” Ashley burst into tears, clutching her cheek. “How can you say something so horrible!” Her parents rushed forward, shouting, “How dare you hit our daughter!” And Kevin, my spineless son, immediately shielded Ashley. “Mom, what is wrong with you? Apologize to Ashley right now!” “Apologize?” I laughed, a broken, bitter sound. “You’re next.” I may have hesitated to hit Ashley, but I had no such qualms about my own idiotic son. “Mom!” He flinched, trying to back away, but my relatives, finally seeing the truth, formed a wall behind him. Ashley’s family, perhaps out of sheer embarrassment, didn’t move to help. I grabbed his arm. “Have I ever let you go hungry? Have I ever deprived you of anything? Have your sister and I ever done a single thing to hurt you, that you would treat us like this? Where is your conscience, Kevin? Did a dog eat it?” He just mumbled, “Mom,” clutching his face where I hadn’t even hit him yet. Seeing his pathetic look, my anger deflated slightly, replaced by a wave of exhaustion. Maybe he really was just that clueless. “Son,” I sighed, “you and Ashley are not right for each other. If she can cause a scene this ugly over you and your own sister, your family… what will she do when she gets jealous of a coworker? A friend? What will you do then?” He looked over the crowd, his gaze locking onto Ashley. A strange smile appeared on his face. Then he turned back to me. “That will never happen, Mom. I’ll never have dinner alone with any woman besides Ashley.” Before I could respond, the ballroom doors swung open and two police officers walked in. “We got a call about a disturbance?” “Here! It was me!” Ashley stepped forward, pointing a trembling finger at me. “That woman forged documents, she’s involved in human trafficking, and she assaulted me! Arrest her!” “That’s an outrageous lie!” Chloe shot back, quickly explaining the whole sordid story to the officers. Still, they had to follow procedure. They verified my ID and the birth certificates. They even expedited a DNA swab test right there. Everything checked out. The documents were real. The DNA proved I was their mother. Ashley, however, wasn’t done. “That just proves they have the same mom,” she muttered. “It doesn’t prove they have the same dad.” Everyone just stared at her like she was an alien. Seeing she had no allies, she changed tactics, clutching her cheek again. “Fine, maybe the other stuff isn’t true, but she did hit me! That’s assault. I want her to apologize, or I’m pressing charges. That’s disorderly conduct, right? That’s a night in jail.” “Over my dead body!” Chloe stepped in front of me. “You started this! You slandered us for hours, and my mom gave you one slap. One! Who here saw an ‘assault’? You’re just making things up!” “I saw it,” a quiet voice said. It was Kevin. He refused to look at me, his eyes fixed on the officers. “The officer is right here. My mom assaulted Ashley. She needs to apologize.” 4 I stared at my son, my heart turning to ice. I knew the hotel had security cameras. He knew it too. How could he lie so blatantly for her? His expression was strained. His eyes darted nervously towards Ashley’s father, then hardened with resolve. And then it all clicked into place. Ashley’s father was a Senior VP at the company where Kevin worked. His boss’s boss’s boss. Kevin wasn’t just doing this for Ashley. He was doing it for her father. He was sucking up. He knew Ashley was creating chaos, but it wasn’t his problem. He was perfectly fine with throwing his mother and sister under the bus as long as it advanced his career. For the first time, I felt like I was truly seeing my son. He was a bottomless pit of self-interest. He hadn’t sold us out before simply because the right offer hadn’t come along. “I’m not apologizing,” I said, my voice steady. “You want to press charges for assault? Fine. I’ll press charges for slander and defamation. We can both spend a few nights in jail. Sounds fun.” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper only they could hear. “But when I get out, I’m posting the security footage from tonight all over the internet. I’ll send it to your company, Ashley. To your dad’s company, Kevin. Let’s see what your coworkers think. I’m 60 years old. I have nothing left to lose.” You want to play crazy? I can play crazy too. I’d seen other old ladies make scenes, and while I always thought it was embarrassing, I now understood. You can’t fight a rabid dog with logic. My resolve must have scared her. Ashley’s expression faltered. She finally revealed her true goal. “Fine. No apology. But you have to promise me. You and your daughter are never to see my husband alone again.” So that’s what this was all about. All the drama, the humiliation, the DNA tests… it was just to isolate him. I glanced at Kevin. He stood there silently, his face a blank mask. We weren’t his family anymore. We were just obstacles. He didn’t care that we’d been slandered and abused. He only cared about himself. “Okay,” I said. “I agree.” Ashley smiled, victorious. Kevin quickly added his pledge, “We’ll never meet alone.” My heart, which I thought was already broken, shattered completely. “We won’t just avoid meeting him alone,” I said, my voice as cold as a tombstone. “We will never meet him again. Period.” Kevin’s face went pale. “Mom!” He hadn’t expected such a clean break. “Don’t call me Mom. From this day forward, you are on your own. Our relationship is over.” This selfish, ungrateful boy was no longer my son. The party ended in shambles. As Chloe and I left, all of our relatives got up and walked out with us. My daughter took me straight to the hospital for a check-up. Then I had her go home, pack every single thing that belonged to Kevin, and send it to him via courier. Two hours later, my old phone rang. It was Kevin. He sounded cheerful, as if nothing had happened. “Mom, I’m so sorry,” he cooed. “I was just trying to show Ashley I was on her side. I didn’t know it would hurt you so much.” “I have to go.” “Mom, wait… the final payment for the venue…” I let out a dry laugh. “Weren’t you just trying to impress your rich father-in-law? Ask him. Mr. Miller, we are no longer mother and son. Please don’t call me again. I’m terrified your psychotic wife might accuse me of something else.” “Oh, and by the way,” I added, “since you called, let me make one more thing crystal clear. Since you are no longer my son, your life is your own problem. Your wedding, your house, your car, your bills… that’s all on you now. Good luck.” “Mom…” I hung up. 5 He wanted to use his mother and sister’s reputation to curry favor with his in-laws? Fine. Let’s see how he pays for a wedding on his meager salary without my financial support. He called again and again, but I didn’t answer. I blocked his number. Finally, a text came through from a different number: “If you don’t give me the money, I’ll just move in with them! The baby will take their last name! You’ll have no heir!” How pathetic. As if I cared about a family name that wasn’t even mine to begin with. He could change his own last name for all I cared. My nephew, who still had some contact with Kevin, filled me in on the aftermath. The venue wouldn’t let Kevin leave until the bill was paid. Ashley’s parents, humiliated, tried to slip out, but Ashley threw a tantrum until they paid the six-figure bill. Afterward, her parents, realizing Kevin was broke, tried to convince her to break up with him. But Ashley was “madly in love.” She and Kevin took their marriage license to the courthouse and got married immediately. Meanwhile, Chloe and I were on a trip. She was about to start her Master’s program in a different state, and I had no desire to go back home. To finance Kevin’s wedding, I’d sold the family house. I’d split the money three ways: one part for the wedding that never happened, one part for Chloe, and one part for me. With the money I’d saved for his car, rings, and other expenses, I had over $700,000 in the bank. I could retire anywhere. With financial freedom and distance from the toxicity, I found a strange sense of peace. Listening to the drama unfolding in the Miller family was almost… entertaining. When it came to screwing over their own family, Kevin and Ashley really were a perfect match. But I had severely underestimated Ashley’s capacity for chaos.

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The boy I had a crush on in high school became one of the biggest movie stars on the planet. Before I finally gave in to my mom’s demands and went on a blind date, I bought a ticket to see his concert. One last goodbye to a foolish dream. During the fan interaction segment, the camera panned across the massive arena, and of all the tens of thousands of people, it landed on me. My face was suddenly on the jumbotron, right next to his. The host asked, “What’s the one thing you want to say right now?” When the microphone reached my hands, my throat closed up. I was completely overwhelmed. So I did the only thing I could think of. I used sign language. The crowd was confused, a low murmur rippling through the stadium. But then, on the giant screen, he signed back. “I’m great. Especially today. I saw the person I like. And you?” 1 “You’re twenty-seven, Clara. All you do is follow that celebrity around online. You never go out. Your cousin Sarah just got engaged, and you’re not even trying.” My mom pointed an accusing finger at the poster of Leo Vance on my bedroom wall. “Can you marry a poster? Is that your plan? It would make me so happy if you just brought a nice boy home for once.” At twenty-seven, my social media feed was an endless stream of engagement rings and baby announcements. The pressure from my family was relentless, but I was an immovable object. Every time I went home for Sunday dinner, I left with my ears ringing. My mom had set me up on at least four blind dates in the last two years. I’d dodged them all with the “crazy busy at work” excuse. No one knew that my heart had been occupied for a very, very long time. The problem was, the boy who held it was now a globally famous superstar, and the distance between us felt more like a galaxy. I was staring at a small photo card of him, lost in thought, when my mom snatched it out of my hand and tossed it in the trash can. “What’s the point of looking at this all day? He doesn’t even know you exist.” She was right. Leo Vance wouldn’t remember me. He’d been famous since he was seventeen, starting as a singer before transitioning to acting. At twenty-two, he won an Oscar. In the three years since, his movies had grossed over a billion dollars. He was in a league of his own, a celestial body in the Hollywood sky. And I was just… me. “Listen to me,” she said, her tone final. “Next month, you are going on this date. Mrs. Gable from next door set it up. She says he’s handsome and has a good job.” To get her off my back, I finally agreed. The second she left my room, I fished the little photo card out of the trash. I wiped it clean with a tissue and carefully tucked it back into its sleeve in my desk drawer. My mom had no idea. These little things she saw as trash were the artifacts of my entire youth. A silent, one-sided love story. Maybe that’s why I was here, sitting in this arena. It felt like I was attending a funeral for my own heart. The house lights went down. A roar went through the crowd as the countdown appeared on the giant screens. My own heart hammered against my ribs in time with the bass. When the lights exploded back on, Leo was rising from the center of the stage. The sound was deafening. “Hello, Los Angeles!” he yelled into the mic. “My name is Leo Vance, and welcome to my very first solo tour!” That voice. It instantly transported me back to the accident, to the memory of a teenage boy repeating my name over and over. “Don’t be scared, Clara! I’ve got you!” The memories came flooding back, a painful reminder of how different our lives had become. From my seat, hidden in the anonymity of the crowd, I watched the boy I knew become the superstar on stage. Leo, I thought. It’s been a long time. 2 During a break between songs, the fan-cam started sweeping the audience. The girls next to me were screaming, waving their arms, praying to be the chosen one. I was just happy to be here, to see him in person one last time. It was worth the thousand bucks I’d paid a scalper for this VIP seat. I was lost in the moment when the camera suddenly stopped. On me. A cheer went up from the sections around me. On stage, Leo’s gaze shifted from the roaring crowd to the screen, and then down into the audience, trying to find me. My face was plastered on the jumbotron, ten feet high. I was in a split screen with Leo Vance. I never, ever imagined our reunion would be like this. I was frozen. A staff member handed me a microphone as the host’s voice boomed through the speakers. “Let’s give it up for our lucky fan! You get a chance to chat with Leo!” He continued, “So, tell us, what’s the one thing you want to say to Leo right now?” My voice was gone. So I lifted my hands and signed the question that had been sitting in my heart for years. “How have you been?” The audience fell into a confused silence. But then, to my utter shock, Leo lifted his own hands. And on the screen for the whole world to see, he signed back. “I’m great. Especially today. I saw the person I like. And you?” 3 After he signed it, a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. The fans around me were frantically taking pictures of the screen. My own face was burning, my heart doing a frantic tap dance in my chest. I wished time could just stop right there. Then the meaning of his words hit the rest of the arena, and the place exploded. The girl next to me, a fellow fan, grabbed my arm, her voice ecstatic. “Oh my god! He just confessed to us! He said he saw the person he likes! He meant us, his fans! He loves us!” In that instant, my little bubble of hope burst. Of course. He had someone he liked. I forced a smile onto my own face and signed a simple gesture of blessing toward the stage. As the camera moved on to the next fan, I gave a small wave. Goodbye, Leo. The boy who had owned my heart for a whole decade. 4 After the concert ended and the crowd began to file out, a man in a staff jacket hurried over to me. “Excuse me, miss? Clara?” he asked. “Leo prepared a signed gift package for the lucky fans tonight. Could I get your contact info and an address so we can mail it to you?” I looked at him. It was David, his manager. I’d seen him in a hundred paparazzi photos. I was more nervous talking to him than I had been seeing Leo. This unrequited love story had reached its final page. I wrote down my information, bowed my head slightly in thanks, and left. Back at my apartment, I felt hollowed out. I opened Twitter, hoping to find a clip of the interaction. I didn’t have to look far. The number one trending topic in the country was #LeoVanceSmiled. The top tweet, with over a million likes, was a video of the moment. The replies were a torrent of shock and awe. I’ve literally never seen him smile like that before. Not a press smile. A real one. He looks so… soft? I didn’t know he could do that. OMG AND HE KNOWS SIGN LANGUAGE?? To be inclusive of deaf fans? I’m dead. Officially deceased. That girl is going to remember that moment for the rest of her life. Okay but can we talk about how pretty the girl on the screen is?! She looks like a celebrity herself. They look so good together in the split screen! The chemistry is insane! I quietly saved the video and kept scrolling. Did you guys see?? He was professing his love for us, The Pride! It was a message to his real fans! This is the ultimate fan service! Best idol-fan relationship in the industry! We got the message, Leo! We love you too! More concerts please! I’m so jealous of everyone who got to be there for that confession!!! Then, the narrative shifted. Someone posted a grainy photo of the actress Isabelle Sterling at the concert. Fans who were there confirmed it, posting their own pictures of her. And then someone pointed out the most damning detail of all. Isabelle Sterling had been sitting in the row directly behind me. Even in a baseball cap and a mask, you could tell it was her. My heart plummeted. It felt like the floor had just dropped out from under me. He wasn’t smiling at me. He was looking past me, at her. A fan who understood ASL had translated his message: I saw the person I like. The internet detectives put two and two together. The person he liked had to be Isabelle Sterling. That night, #LeoAndIsabelle and #HollywoodsNewPowerCouple started trending. People dug for clues. They found Isabelle’s “finsta”—her private, friends-only Instagram account. And on it, she’d posted a picture from the concert. I clicked the link. It was a selfie she’d taken from her seat, with Leo visible on the stage in the background. The caption read: My superstar. Heard that little message loud and clear 😉 Her expression was one of pure adoration, the look of a girl completely in love. The comments from her friends were all knowing. Girl, you actually went! We need more content! SO CUTE. I’m crying, this is the sweetest thing ever. Isabelle had replied with a single blushing emoji, essentially confirming everything. That was it. The last bit of air left my lungs. 5 The rumors about them had been around for years. Isabelle Sterling was supposedly his childhood sweetheart. The story was that after Leo got famous, Isabelle, who came from a powerful Hollywood family, used her connections to get her first leading role just to be closer to him. They’d been photographed having dinner with each other’s parents. The tabloids had been speculating for years that they were secretly engaged. Isabelle’s finsta post seemed to be the final piece of the puzzle. At that moment, my stupid, hopeful heart finally gave up. I went to his official subreddit, a place I visited daily, and clicked “unfollow.” I used to read every post, every update. Sometimes, late at night, he’d even pop in and reply to a few fan comments. But with this firestorm online, Leo himself remained silent. Which felt like a confirmation. He was too bright, too far away. The only way to stop getting burned was to step out of his light completely. I closed my eyes, held my breath, and deleted Twitter and Instagram from my phone. I lay down on my bed, the silence in my apartment suddenly feeling heavy. Just as I was drifting off, my phone screen lit up with a notification. I picked it up, my eyes still blurry. I stared at the screen, unable to process what I was seeing. It was a friend request on a messaging app I barely used. From an unsaved number. Hey. It’s Leo Vance. You left something at the show.

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