Chapter 2

My knee cracked against the marble floor, and the old wound tore wide, blood blooming through my pants. I stared at the crimson stain and felt a sickening sense of déjà vu—three months ago, I was in this exact spot.

Back then, Stella hadn't "died" yet. She wanted my bedroom—the suite. I told her no, and Michael pitched me down the stairs for being difficult.

I woke up in the hospital with a broken leg. Mom visited exactly once and told me, "Vivian, just let Stella have the room. You know she has a delicate constitution."

I told her, "Mom, I'm the one who shares your DNA."

She just sighed and said, "Stella has been our daughter for eighteen years. You just got here—try to show some grace."

I finally got the message. Being the "good daughter" meant losing—giving up my space, my clothes, my parents, my brother.

By the end, I was expected to surrender my pulse, too.

"Michael, stop," Stella sobbed, "please don't do this."

"Stella, you're far too sweet for your own good," Mom said, pulling her into a protective embrace. "Have you forgotten she's the reason you went over that railing?"

"I didn't," I croaked, my voice sounding like gravel in a blender. "The note was a lie. I never touched her."

"Shut your mouth!" Dad snapped, his hand whistling through the air before the slap connected.

My head jerked sideways, and the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. I licked my lip—it tasted sickeningly sweet. I think he'd actually loosened a molar.

"Still playing the victim?" Dad snarled, stabbing a finger toward my eyes. "That note was a cry for help. How can you call it a lie? Do you honestly think a teenage girl would stage her own death just to spite you?"

Because she's liar.

The words sat like lead on my tongue, but I kept my mouth shut.

I'd laid it all out for them three months ago, before they threw me in the cellar. I brought receipts—literally.

I showed them her credit card logs showing she'd bought a designer bag the day before she "jumped." I even had the Ring camera footage of her at the marina, draped all over some guy.

They claimed I'd photoshopped the whole thing.

"Stella is an angel," Michael had sneered. "She doesn't have a devious bone in her body. You're just a bitter liar trying to ruin her."

Mom had just sobbed, "Vivian, we spent years looking for you. How did you turn out like this? Is your ego so fragile that you have to destroy her to feel special?"

Dad didn't even argue; he just signaled the security detail.

"Since you're so fond of trapping people, let's see how you handle a cage," he commanded.

As the basement door slammed shut, I heard Michael's final verdict. "Leave her down there for the season. We'll talk after the memorial service."

They'd been mourning a ghost.

Now she was back, playing the amnesiac, a "blank slate" of innocence. And I was the monster who had supposedly driven her to the edge.

"Drag her to the music room," Michael ordered suddenly. "Stella wants to hear you play."

My head snapped up.

The music room. The Steinway grand. Michael had bought it for me the week I moved in. He'd told me, "Vivian, the nightmare is over. I'm your brother, and I'm going to make sure you never hurt again."

Stella had been standing right there, beaming. "That's amazing! Now that I have a sister who plays, we can practice duets together."

She couldn't play a single note. It was all part of the act.

They hauled me into the conservatory. Moonlight flooded through the glass walls, making the black Steinway look like a polished coffin waiting for a body.

"Play," Michael barked. "Stella wants 'Clair de Lune.'"

My hands were shaking uncontrollably.

Ninety days in that cellar had left my fingers gnarled and inflamed. I'd spent every waking hour clawing at the concrete and the heavy oak door, begging for a way out. My nails were nonexistent; my knuckles were thick, bruised knots.

I struck a key. The note hung in the air, flat and ugly.

"What was that garbage?" Michael's brow furrowed. "Start over."

I tried again. The second note was even worse, a discordant thud.

Stella leaned against the doorframe, her voice a sugary needle. "Is your hand okay, honey? Maybe we should just call it a night."

"Her hand?" Michael sneered. "What's wrong with her hand?"

He lunged forward and snatched my right wrist.

I choked on a sob. His grip was a vice, hot and suffocating.

"Cut the theatrics," Michael growled, squeezing my hand as if he intended to turn the bone to dust. "It looks fine to me."

A sickening, wet pop.

With that sharp crack, my index finger snapped like a dry twig.