Chapter 3

It was a long, bumpy ride.

The bus twisted along winding mountain roads for four hours, and then we switched to a farm buggy that stank of chicken and duck manure.

By the time we got to Willowreek, it was already late at night.

The place was a crumbling brick house, with drafty windows and a yard piled high with rotting straw.

As soon as we walked in, all the nervousness and fake friendliness on Frank and Susan's faces were gone in an instant.

Susan grabbed my backpack and dumped all my stuff right onto the mud.

There were only a few faded old clothes, a cracked phone, and a few hundred dollars in cash.

"That's it?" she scoffed, kicking the clothes aside with her foot, her face twisted in disgust. "Didn't Mr. Foster say you lived in luxury for over ten years? How come you don't have anything valuable, not a single piece of jewelry?"

Frank spat out a curse, strode over, and grabbed my shoulder so hard it felt like he was about to crush my bones. "You're nothing but a useless girl. I had to shell out for your bus fare to drag you here.

"Starting tomorrow, you clean the pig pen and cook the meals. Don't expect a free ride in this house."

My fever still hadn't broken.

All the running around these days made my bones feel like someone was pounding them with a hammer.

I tried to break free from his grip, but he shoved me hard, sending me crashing to the ground.

My knee slammed into a sharp rock, tearing the skin open. Blood streamed down my calf.

Because of my leukemia, my blood wouldn't clot. The blood kept coming, and the wound looked like a horror show.

Susan glanced at the wound, spat on the ground, and sneered, "Quit acting so precious. You played the city princess for a few days, and now you think you're some fragile doll? Get out back and split the firewood."

I was locked in a storage room piled high with farm tools.

There was no bed, only a pile of damp straw. Cold wind seeped through the cracks in the walls, slicing into my skin like knives.

I huddled in the corner, pressing my cold fingers against my bleeding knee. The blood kept flowing, soaking the straw until it was stained red.

At that moment, I thought Emily got to live like a princess in the Foster family.

When I was six, all it took was one extra look at her teddy bear, and Mom dragged me into the corner and made me stand there the whole night as punishment.

Emily had piano lessons that cost 600 dollars each.

I had to crawl out of bed at five in the morning and scrub a mountain of dishes in the kitchen, so I could afford breakfast the next day.

I always believed that if I was good enough, quiet enough, and never caused trouble, maybe they'd finally notice me.

But the only thing they ever saw was how ungrateful I was.

The next morning, I was jolted awake by a bucket of cold water.

Susan stood there, plastic bucket in hand, her eyes blazing with fury. "Sleeping in when the sun's already up? What? Are you courting death?"

I struggled to get up, the world spinning crazily in front of me.

The fever made my lips so dry they were cracked and bleeding, and my forehead was slick with sweat.

They shoved me outside to wash clothes in the yard.

The icy well water stung my hands, turning them bright red and hurting like hell. My joints ached so badly that it felt like needles were stabbing me.

Three days of heavy labor and not enough food sent my illness spiraling out of control.

By the afternoon of the fourth day, I was feeding the pigs when I suddenly collapsed without warning.

Blood gushed from my nose like a turned-on tap, splattering onto the filthy mud below.

Frank stomped over and gave me a rough kick in the ribs. "Quit playing dead. Get up and get back to work."

I looked up at him, my voice weak and shaky. "I'm really sick. Please, take me to the hospital."

Susan leaned in, gave me a quick look, and curled her lip in disgust. "Hospital? You think hospitals are free or something?

"Mr. Foster told us to teach you a lesson and make sure you get a taste of real hardship. So stop pretending you're sick."

They dragged me back to the storage room and locked the door from the outside.

In the darkness, I fished out that old phone with the cracked screen from my pocket.

The faint glow from the screen lit up my hand, stained with blood.

I found Mom's number in my contacts and pressed call. This was the last time I'd reach out to that family for help.

Not because I wanted to live, but to hear how cruel they could really be.

The phone rang for ages before someone finally picked up.

"Hello?" Mom's voice came through, sounding annoyed.

In the background, I could hear Emily's melodious piano playing.

"Mom," I called out weakly, tears slipping down my cheeks. "It hurts so much. I'm bleeding a lot. They hit me and won't let me eat. Mom, please, bring me home."

"Enough, Claire," Mom snapped, cutting me off. "How much longer are you going to keep pretending?

"I told you, sending you to the sticks was to toughen you up, not for you to pull these pity stunts.

"Emily's at a critical point in her piano practice, so stop calling and messing with her focus.

"When you finally drop the act and stop being so dramatic, maybe then I'll think about bringing you back."

The line went dead with a cold beep. She hung up on me without a second thought.

I gripped my phone, listening to the empty silence, a bitter, self-mocking smile creeping onto my lips.

Toughening me up? With those words, they basically signed my death sentence.

I closed my eyes and tossed the phone into the corner. "Fine, I'm done pretending."