Chapter 1
My mom, Daniela Clarke, was a top-tier microexpression expert. She always said no lie could slip past her.
To keep tabs on my younger sister, Elaine Hardy, and me, she had the whole house rigged with high-definition cameras.
When Elaine scraped her knee and burst into tears, Mom would gently say, "That's genuine emotion."
But when I was grimacing in pain from stomach cramps, Mom would point at the screen and coldly analyze me.
"The twitch at your mouth and the way your eyes keep dodging are classic performer type," she'd say.
One day, I accidentally ate something I was deathly allergic to. My throat swelled up fast, and I could barely breathe.
Desperate, I clutched at my neck and crawled to her feet, begging for help.
But Mom pushed up her glasses, calmly pulled out her notebook, and started jotting things down.
[Rapid breathing, bluish complexion,] she noted.
"Emily, your acting is improving, but your microexpressions still betray your insincerity," she said.
*****
To punish me for lying, Mom disabled the emergency system, locked the front door, and took Elaine to a concert.
"Since you love acting, go ahead and perform for the cameras all you want. Let's see how long it takes before you finally admit you messed up," Mom said
I curled up in agony on the cold tiled floor, gazing up at the camera with its blinking red light.
My vision kept fading, growing dimmer by the second.
Mom had spent her whole life analyzing people's hearts.
But she never truly understood her own daughter.
I found myself drifting above, gazing down at my own body curled up on the cold floor.
My face, twisted and swollen a ghastly purple from suffocation, looked ugly, almost pitifully absurd.
All the pain and despair were trapped in that body below, left behind with the shell I no longer needed.
It was finally over. I didn't have to hurt anymore.
My soul felt as light as air. With a single thought, I floated through the walls and ended up in a lavish concert hall, glittering with gold.
Mom was sitting in the front row. She took a fruit candy from Elaine, slowly peeled off the wrapper, and gently fed it to her, as if Elaine were the most precious thing in the world.
There was a tenderness in her eyes, a softness I'd never seen before.
"Take your time, sweetheart. Don't choke," she said gently.
Elaine grumbled with her mouth full of candy.
"Ugh, Emily is so annoying. She kept pretending to be sick at home and almost made us late," she complained.
Mom smirked, her tone full of confidence. "Don't bother with her. She's putting on a show for attention.
"I'm giving her the cold shoulder. She needs to realize that stuff doesn't work on me."
Right then, her phone, tucked inside her designer bag on her lap, buzzed.
It was a notification from the home monitoring app.
It read: [The living room camera has detected someone motionless for a long time. It's a possible anomaly. Please check immediately.]
Mom casually unlocked her phone and opened the familiar camera feed.
On the screen, I was lying motionless on the cold tile floor, my body grotesquely contorted.
"Hmm, Emily's lying in such a weird position," Elaine said.
She leaned in, making a face of clear annoyance.
"She's playing dead again, trying to trick you into coming home," Elaine complained.
Mom snorted, showing zero concern.
She zoomed in on my fingers, cramped and twisted from oxygen deprivation, and launched into her classic live demonstration.
She explained, "Elaine, look at this. This is called deliberate stiffness.
"When someone's unconscious or dead, their muscles go slack at first. But look at her fingers. They're so tightly clenched.
"She's obviously overdoing it, worried someone might miss her performance."
She paused and then pointed at my half-open mouth.
She explained, "And here, the corners of her mouth are turned down. That's a textbook 'martyr complex' look.
"She's getting a weird sense of satisfaction from being misunderstood, soaking up all that tragic drama."
At that moment, a well-dressed woman sitting nearby overheard their conversation and leaned over, her eyes wide with surprise.
She asked excitedly, "Wait, are you Professor Daniela Clarke, the microexpression expert who's always on TV?
"I've heard so much about you."
Her eyes were sparkling with awe. "Your analysis is so professional. You have eagle eyes. Nothing escapes you."
"Thank you. I'm flattered," Mom replied.
She smiled modestly, her chin raised with a hint of quiet confidence.
I drifted above them, wearing a silent, wry smile.
Mom did mess up this time.
I drifted above them, wearing a silent, wry smile.
This time, Mom was really wrong.
My mind drifted back to when I was a kid, before Mom made it big as a microexpression expert.
Back then, she looked at me with pure love in her eyes.