Chapter 3

That iron door haunted me all day.

Inmate numbers. Whistles. Solitary confinement. No crying allowed.

In the afternoon, Mom walked in carrying her purse. "Go change."

"Where are we going?"

"Shopping. You need new clothes."

"I'm fine with these," I said, tugging at my sleeve.

She looked at me. "Ellie, you're an Ashford. You deserve to wear things you actually like."

In the fitting room, I slipped on a white silk blouse.

The moment I pulled the curtain back, Mom's face completely changed. Her eyes were fixed in horror on my back.

I instinctively looked over my shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Her lips were bloodless. "Your back... don't move."

She raised her phone, took a picture, and turned the screen toward me.

I stared at it for a few seconds.

There was barely an inch of intact skin on my back.

Ligature marks. Circular burn-like scars. Puncture wounds. Old trauma layered over new trauma.

Mom's hands began to shake. "Ellie..."

I kept staring at the photo. "I don't remember."

She reached out, wanting to touch my shoulder. Before her hand could even land, I had already scrambled into the corner of the fitting room, pulling my knees to my chest, my breathing spiraling out of control.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have dodged, I'm sorry—"

"Don't apologize." Her voice completely broke.

I looked up. Tears were streaming down her face. "This isn't your fault."

I watched her for a moment, then said, with absolute, heartbreaking sincerity, "But I must have been bad. Why else would they do that to me?"

She slapped a hand over her mouth, dropping to the floor and pulling me into a desperate hug.

My entire body went rigid. My arms hung uselessly at my sides. For a long time, I didn't know if I was allowed to hug her back.

When we got home, I walked past the pantry on the first floor. I heard two housekeepers talking inside.

"You buy the amnesia thing? Used to call the cops on us for breathing wrong. Now she's a saint."

"I feel bad for Miss Lila. Takes all that abuse and still defends her."

"If you ask me, getting shipped off was exactly what she deserved."

I walked in holding my water glass. The voices snapped off instantly. They both dropped their heads and started aggressively wiping the counters.

I stood there for two seconds.

"Thank you."

They both froze.

I didn't say anything else. I turned and walked away. It wasn't until I was far down the hall that the water in my glass started to tremble. My hands were shaking.

That night, I locked my bedroom door and searched my own name.

My social media accounts had been wiped clean. The last post was from three years ago. In the login activity, there was a device I didn't recognize at all.

Scrolling further down, an old tabloid article popped up.

Eldest Ashford Daughter Enrolled in Cedar Ridge RTC in Utah for Professional Intervention.

I clicked into their official website.

Behavioral Modification. Level-Based Growth. Accountability Education.

I scrolled down until a promotional image loaded—a heavy gray iron door, leading to a windowless hallway.

My finger stopped. The phone nearly slipped from my grip.

I knew that place. I had been locked in there.