Chapter 1

In a house fire, my brother risked his life to save me, but lost the use of both legs.

To pay for his treatment, I juggled five jobs a day. In six months, I lost thirty pounds.

Then one day, when I was exhausted and nearly fainted, a line of text suddenly appeared before my eyes.

[Poor thing. Does she know the only reason her 'brother' risked his life to get her out was so she wouldn't discover the secret in the study?]

[With a sucker like her around, no wonder the male lead is addicted to faking a leg injury.]

[Right now, he's at the race track, speeding around with the girl next door.]

I rushed to the race track, just in time to see my brother win the race. The girl next door, blushing shyly, handed him a bouquet of flowers.

I left without a word, vanishing completely.

Later, I heard my brother drove off a cliff in the dead of night.

And it was all because he saw a back that looked seven parts like mine.

*****

Finished the last cleaning job of the day.

Stepping out of the apartment complex, my body gave out. I collapsed. Someone at the scene took me to the hospital.

The doctor laid it out flat. "Severe stomach erosion. GI bleeding. If you don't get proper care, it's a straight shot to cancer."

My fingers closed around the one hundred bucks in my pocket. Today's earnings. My face flushed hot with shame. "Can you just prescribe me some cheap painkillers?"

The doctor's expression darkened. He snapped the chart shut. Refused.

I dragged myself out, stumbled into a shabby walk-in clinic on the next block.

Painkillers were fifteen bucks a bottle. Lasted a good while.

I hunched under a grimy streetlight, dry-swallowed two pills. A fiery, acidic burn ripped down my throat and settled deep in my gut.

Pulling out the rest of my cash, I thumbed through the bank transfer history to Joey. The pain seemed to dull, just a little.

As long as I could save more, maybe soon I could talk him into going abroad for a consultation.

He was only twenty-eight. In a wheelchair now, no job, probably no future wife either.

It was a miserable thought.

A food cart was setting up. The smell of sizzling meat skewers filled the air.

My mouth watered. I remembered a little leftover in the pot at home. Enough for a meal later. I just needed to catch my breath first.

My vision started spotting. Then, faint, scratchy laughter seemed to whisper in my ears, "This poor sap. Does she know her 'brother' only dragged her out of that fire to keep her from barging into the study?"

I froze. Lifted my head, scanning the empty street. No one.

Then lines of text began to shimmer in the air before me.

[Total pushover.]

[Right now, he's at the race track, speeding around with the girl next door.]

[The pennies she's pinching wouldn't even buy a bottle of water at the track.]

[Gotta hand it to him, though. Faking the limp, the bankruptcy, the depression... Dude missed his calling as an actor.]

A torrent of wild, insane words flooded my mind. The pain was making me delusional.

I felt like maybe my stomach pain was messing with me, and my head was all fuzzy.

My gut told me not to believe a word of it.

But my body moved on its own.

I stood up, walked to the curb. Dug out every last dollar from my pocket. For the first time in years, I hailed a cab. Gave the address I'd just seen in those ghostly words, the race track.

The cab got stopped at the gate. I got out. Got stopped by security. Wasn't surprised.

But on the giant screen above the entrance, a face appeared. Familiar, yet foreign.

Joey Lancaster. Twenty-eight. Supposedly paralyzed from the waist down.

On screen, the winning car crossed the line. A tall figure unfolded himself from the driver's seat. Joey.

Joey, who was always pale and withdrawn from his "depression."

Joey, pulling off his helmet with practiced ease, face flushed with victory.

The two images clashed in my head, making the world swim.

A girl ran up to him, shoved a bouquet of crimson roses into his arms. I couldn't hear her, but I could read her lips.

"Congrats, Joey."

I was at a loss.

Joey and I had been each other's whole world for over twenty years.

Yet he lied to me.

Even when I was collapsing from exhaustion, begging him to take me to the ER because I was too scared of the bill, he didn't tell me the truth.

A group spilled out from the track entrance, laughing and talking, oblivious to me in the shadows.

I caught a man's voice, chuckling. "How long you gonna keep fooling Nina, man? Saw her last week, handing out flyers in the cold, looked ready to drop."

Then Joey's voice, low and flat. "Our parents died because of her childish tantrum. She needs to learn a lesson the hard way."

Murmurs of admiration from the others. "Harsh, even for your own sister."

I stood rooted to the spot, cold seeping up from the pavement.

So he never believed me.

The day our parents died, someone claimed I'd texted them, lured them to the river. I'd wept, pleaded with Joey. At the funeral, he'd held me, whispering, "It's okay. I believe you, not them." He never did.

This whole five-year struggle, this fight to keep us afloat, it was just his revenge.

So even when I was in the ICU with a heart attack, clutching a death scare, he could look me in the eye and say, "We're broke. There's nothing I can do."

The group passed me by, voices fading.

I watched Joey's back. The man who'd spent five years in a wheelchair now stood tall and straight, a stranger.

I hesitated, but in the end, I chose to let him know.

My voice scraped out, raw. "Having fun, Joey?"

The man talking coldly to his friends stopped dead.