Chapter 4
A deafening crash suddenly erupted from the living room, shattering the moment.
Helen stood there, her eyes wide with a frenzied, bloodshot rage. She had hurled a vase to the floor, sending shards skittering across the floor.
"You're all lying to me! Every single one of you! The show's already over—so where's Taylor? Where's my Taylor?" she shrieked, completely hysterical.
The relatives were frozen in fear, not daring to say a single word.
Just then, the phone started blaring, loud and piercing.
The screen flashed—my number was calling.
Helen grabbed the phone and started yelling right into the receiver.
"Taylor Summers! Where the hell did you disappear to? Are you trying to make me worry myself sick?"
The person on the other end was caught off guard by her yelling.
It was my coach. "Taylor's mom... Taylor's phone just ran out of battery and shut off. P-Please, you need to come to the hospital right now—she's in emergency care, they're trying everything, but she's barely hanging on..."
Her voice suddenly went shrill. "What are you talking about? My Taylor's just fine! Why are you saying such awful things about him?
"He's my son! I'll sue you for spreading lies!"
The coach was stunned, scrambling to explain, "I mean, your daughter—Taylor Summers is the one in trouble—"
"I don't have a daughter!" Helen shot back, her voice trembling with fury.
Helen kept repeating herself, frantic and angry.
"I only have one son! His name is Taylor Summers! Don't even think about tricking me! Are you trying to steal my Taylor from me? No way! Never! Over my dead body!"
She ended the call with a violent stab of her finger.
Frantically, she tore at the gauze barely holding the bandage on her wrist. The wound reopened, fresh blood beading along the torn skin.
She raised her phone, took a picture of the bloody mess, and began typing.
One text read: [Where are you hiding, you little brat? Do you really think I won't kill myself just to show you? Do you even care if your mom lives or dies?]
A second followed: [You promised me you'd perform! You promised! Even if you have to die, you die on that stage!]
I was freaking out, circling her in panic, reaching out again and again to stop the bleeding, but my hand just kept passing right through her.
I cried out, "No! Please, don't hurt yourself! Mom, I'm not leaving you behind.
"It's just... I can't answer your messages anymore."
Nearby, Vincent's phone buzzed.
He answered, listened for a moment, and his face went ashen, his whole body shaking.
Hanging up, he grabbed a fresh roll of gauze, wrapped Helen's wrist in a few haphazard loops, and physically hauled her toward the door.
"Let's go! To the hospital! Taylor's in trouble!" he shouted.
Fiona clung to a thrashing, screaming Helen as Vincent forced them into the car.
The vehicle filled with her agonized wails and ragged screams.
"He's just nervous! He's hiding! The performance is about to start! He can't be hurt! You're all liars! I have one son! One son!" she screamed.
"Enough!" Vincent roared, slamming his foot on the brake.
The car jerked to a halt. Tears of anger and grief streaked his face.
He grabbed his phone, pulled up the photo the police had sent, and thrust the screen inches from Helen's eyes.
"Look! Open your eyes and take a good look—is this your daughter?" he commanded, his voice cracking.
He jabbed a finger at the image. "This isn't your Taylor! This is Lila! Your daughter! The child you raised for twenty years!"