Chapter 2

After several days and nights of tireless investigation, James finally found human tissue from my limbs in the back kitchens and dumpsters of restaurants along the old street.

But when everyone saw those densely packed little fragments, their stomachs churned involuntarily. "The killer cut the body into very small pieces and randomly scattered them in the back kitchens of shops on the old street. Some of them might have already been—"

James' face turned ashen. The situation had gone far beyond what he'd imagined. He said, "Food safety is our top priority.

"We need to find the rest of the remains as quickly as possible. Everyone stay on high alert and search at maximum speed. Send out a notice—I want all the other precincts to coordinate with us and give this their full cooperation."

Charles brought back the remains he'd found for testing, hoping they could reveal some kind of identity.

An old detective, Lucas Dawson, who'd seen me during a child trafficking rescue case years ago, looked grim as he pulled something from a trash bag—half of a pinky finger. My pinky finger.

"If I remember right, Claire's pinky finger got chopped in half by her adoptive parents when she was stuck in that mountain village. This is—" He trailed off, his voice heavy.

Lucas had spent months undercover in our village. The place was notorious—everyone protected everyone else, and not a single trafficked kid ever escaped.

I remembered when they rescued me. My half-severed pinky was still bleeding. It had been my punishment for disobedience, a lesson my so-called parents carved into my body.

Lucas had taken me to the hospital himself that day and stayed while they bandaged the wound.

"The cut's clean, done in one chop," he said now, examining the severed finger. "It matches Claire's injury exactly."

His eyes were getting wet as he spoke, but before he could finish, James exploded. "I know you've worked a lot of rescue cases, but this isn't the time for wild guessing.

"We need hard facts, a hundred percent confirmation. I get that you want to smooth things over between me and Claire, but let me be clear—I have zero feelings for a woman who does nothing but lie and chase money."

I'd heard James insult me so many times by now, but every time the words hit me again, my throat still went dry and bitter.

I remembered when I first came back to the Grant family—my father, Richard Grant, couldn't stand the stench clinging to my body. Even Charles and James couldn't help mocking how ugly my broken pinky finger looked.

My mother, Diana Grant, seemed to care about me, but it was all an act. She cared more about her reputation and dignity, and Emily—so pure, so perfect, so polite, so good at pretending—was a better fit for her daughter than I ever was.

After they kicked me out of the house, I was only fourteen years old, so I had no choice but to swallow my pride and ask Richard and Diana for some living expenses just to get by.

But in their eyes, that made me a woman who only cared about money and had no regard for family.

Emily had always been perfectly healthy, but after I came home, she suddenly developed depression and anxiety.

One second she'd be all smiles, calling me into her room, and the next second she'd scream and tumble down the stairs. It was such a cliché setup, but the Grants believed every word of it.

The Grant family felt sorry for innocent Emily, and they blamed me—their daughter who'd been brought back home—for being so ungrateful.

Now I've paid for everything with my life. Maybe this way I could finally return my flesh and blood to the Grant family.