Chapter 1

When I was four, I realized I was different from everyone else.

Someone had a date written on their palm, and I was the only one who could see it.

The first time I saw those numbers was when my grandpa was holding me. There was a line of dark red writing on his palm, with a date that was around the corner.

I didn't know many words, but I could recognize numbers.

"Grandpa, there are a lot of numbers on your hand," I said.

He chuckled and pinched my cheek. "Nyomi, your eyes must be playing tricks on you."

I shook my head, turned his palm over, and read each number out to him.

Two days later, Grandpa was watering the flowers on the balcony when he slipped and fell from the fourth floor.

The date of the accident was the same as the one I had read out to him.

The adults were crying in the living room, and no one noticed me sitting in the corner.

I didn't really understand what death meant, but since then, no one ever let me sit on their legs again.

Later, I saw some numbers on Dad's palm.

"Dad, you have numbers on your hand too," I said.

He was tying his shoelaces, and when he heard me, he paused for a moment.

"Nyomi, don't talk nonsense." His voice lost its usual warmth.

I stubbornly grabbed his hand, flipped it over, and read the date to him.

He jerked his hand back, and his expression changed instantly. "Who told you to talk like that?"

I instinctively shrank back at his shout.

Late that afternoon, while he was away on a business trip, his car got into a rear-end collision on the highway. He didn't make it.

When Mom got the call, she dropped to the floor.

Heavily pregnant, she rushed to the hospital but tripped at the entrance to the stairs.

I grabbed her hand to steady her, but in that moment, I saw a fresh date surface on her palm.

It was today.

After my mom was sent to the hospital, my baby sister was delivered by C-section and survived. But Mom never made it.

Trevor Bolton, my third brother, shoved me away so hard that my back crashed against a metal chair in the hallway. "You're nothing but bad luck. Mom and Dad died because of you!"

I tried to say something, but the words wouldn't come.

My second brother, Daniel Bolton, didn't push me, but the way he looked at me stung more than any shove.

"Don't ever touch Ayleen," he said.

Ayleen Bolton was my little sister.

Michael Bolton, my big brother, came back from out of town, and he was calmer than the others.

He didn't hit me or yell at me. But he walked right past me, not pausing for a second.

That night, I was all alone, curled up at the end of the hallway outside the morgue. The floor was cold and hard beneath me.

No one came to find me, and no one called my name.

I hugged my knees tight, pressed my forehead against them, and tears slipped into my mouth. They tasted salty.

From that day on, I was basically invisible in my family.

No, actually, being invisible would've been better. At least nobody hated something invisible.

To them, I was more like a bad omen. Whoever got close to me was asking for trouble.

The servants wouldn't walk up the same stairs as me, afraid my bad luck would rub off on them. Those were Trevor's exact words.

When I was five, they cleared out my room and shoved all my things into the storage room in the farthest corner of the third floor.

There weren't any curtains, and the window had a crack that let in the freezing winter air.

I taped an old newspaper over the crack, but it was still freezing.

Ayleen had the biggest room on the second floor with pink walls, plush carpet, and a wardrobe so huge that it could swallow my entire room.

I knew because I once helped the servants carry freshly washed clothes in there.

But Daniel found out. He told the servants not to ask me for help anymore.

"Ayleen doesn't like wearing anything she's touched." He didn't look at me when he said it, like I wasn't there.

But I was standing right there at the corner of the stairs, three steps away from him.