Chapter 5 CHAPTER FIVE
AVERY
TWO MONTHS LATER
Two months had passed since the night everything broke.
Winter break had come and gone, stretching longer for me than it was ever meant to, and Blackwell Heights had resumed a week ago. Today was my first day back.
I wore Emery’s uniform like it belonged to me.
The same pleated skirt. The same crisp blazer. Polished shoes that still remembered her steps.
The only difference was that she should have been inside it.
Blackwell Heights rose in front of me…pristine, immaculate, untouched by grief. As if the world hadn’t lost someone irreplaceable two months ago
As if my sister hadn’t died.
Cold rushed through me, sharp and sudden, and I swallowed hard against the lump forming in my throat.
“Bye now, Emery.”
Mom’s voice jolted me. I turned back. She hadn’t driven away yet.
I forced my lips into a small smile. “Bye, Mom.”
“Remember to eat well… take care of your brother,” she said, the words tumbling out automatically. Then her voice softened. “And be fine.”
She hesitated.
“I know it hasn’t been easy dealing with your sister’s death,” she continued quietly. “Avery shouldn’t have—”
Her voice broke, just slightly. But she caught herself quickly, straightening her shoulders, smoothing the crack away like it had never existed.
Pretender.
You wanted Avery dead.
You were glad she died.
“Your father and I will be leaving for Singapore in two hours time” she continued, steady now. “We won’t take long. We’ll be back before you know it.”
Of course.
It wasn’t even surprising anymore. They’d traveled again barely two days after my sister’s death. Grief had schedules, apparently and business always came first. My parents didn’t bother hiding it anymore. Work over us. Always.
Their children had never been the priority. Not really.
“Alright, Mom.” I gave her the smile she loved best. Emery’s sweet, composed smile.
She waved once before finally driving off.
I let out a slow breath.
Sometimes I didn’t know who had perfected the art of pretending more—
Me, living a borrowed life since Emery died,
Or my parents, who had been pretending to love us equally for as long as I could remember.
My whole life changed the night my sister died.
The fire at the theater spread fast. Too fast. By the time I got there, the street was a chaos of sirens and flashing lights and smoke so thick it burned my lungs. I remember screaming her name until my throat went raw. I remember being held back. I remember the smell…sharp, choking, unforgettable.
Her body was burned beyond recognition.
And yet, through the noise and the panic and the disbelief, one thought burned hotter than the flames.
I was a murderer.
I killed her.
It should have been me.
That should have been my body pulled from the wreckage. She would have been safe if I hadn’t begged. If I hadn’t wanted the showcase so badly. If I hadn’t convinced her to switch places with me.
If I had gone to the movie like I was supposed to, she would still be alive.
I killed her. I did.
My parents rushed home that morning when they got the call. Everything after that blurred together…questions from the police, quiet hospital rooms, voices softened with pity.
The mistake happened quietly.
The ticket found in Emery’s bag had my name on it.
Avery Voss.
In the confusion, in the aftermath of the fire, they assumed the worst. And before anyone slowed down enough to look closer, my mother had collapsed into sobs, clutching me like I was something she’d almost lost.
They thought I was Emery.
They held me like they’d been spared.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” my father had said, his hands shaking as they gripped my shoulders. “I don’t know what we would’ve done if it had been you.”
My mother cried into my hair.
“You’re our future,” she whispered. “Please… don’t ever scare us like that again.”
They were relieved.
Relieved it wasn’t me.
And standing there, wrapped in their grief and relief and love meant for someone else, I knew the truth would destroy them.
I had always known I didn’t mean as much to my parents as Emery did.
It was never said aloud…never needed to be. Love had weight, and Emery carried more of it. She was their pride, their certainty, their proof that something beautiful had come from them.
But knowing it was one thing.
Realizing they would rather have lost me was another.
It was too hard to swallow,the way relief had softened their grief when they thought it was me who had survived. The way their arms had tightened around me, voices trembling as they whispered how grateful they were that Emery was still here.
After all, Emery was their future.
And I wasn’t about to take that from them.
I wasn’t about to watch love turn into resentment the moment they realized the wrong daughter had died. I wasn’t about to give them another reason to grieve, another truth that would fracture what little was left of their hearts. I couldn’t bear the thought of them looking at me…not with relief anymore, but with regret.
With the quiet, unbearable question of why not her?
And I wasn’t about to shatter my twin sister’s dream.
Emery had wanted to graduate. She had wanted to walk across that stage, chin lifted, eyes bright, future stretching wide in front of her. She had worked for it,planned for it,believed in it.
I had taken that future from her the night I begged to switch places.
I killed her.
And if guilt had a price, then this was the least I could pay.
I would finish what she started.
I would wear her name.
I would sit in her seat, answer to her voice, live inside the life she never got to complete.
I would help her graduate.
That night, Emery Voss might have died in the fire.
But Avery Voss died too.
That night…
I became Emery Voss.
I entered English class late, not because I was careless…but because I’d spent half the morning memorizing the school like it was foreign territory.
Blackwell Heights hadn’t changed.
The lockers still gleamed, the hallways still buzzed with laughter that felt too loud. Students clustered in groups, leaning into each other like nothing in the world had ever broken.
I walked slower than necessary, taking everything in. The banners on the walls. The trophy case. The familiar stairwell where Emery used to tug me along when we were running late. Every corner carried echoes, and I hated how easily my mind filled them in.
By the time I reached the English wing, my chest felt tight.
Lucky for me, the teacher didn’t comment on my lateness.
Mr. Caldwell…a dark-haired man with tired eyes and a voice was already midway through addressing the class when I slipped in.
I murmured a soft greeting. He paused just long enough to nod, his expression gentling.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly.
The words followed me like a shadow as I moved farther into the room.
Every head turned.
Their eyes weren’t curious. They weren’t hostile.
They were worse.
Pity.
It clung to me in the way their gazes lingered too long, in the way a few students offered sad smiles like consolation prizes. My stomach twisted. I hated it…hated being looked at like I was fragile. Like I might shatter if someone breathed too hard near me.
I wasn’t glass.
I was already broken.
Still, I did what I’d learned to do best over the last two months.
I smiled.
Small. Polite. Controlled.
I slid into a seat at the back of the class and pulled out a fresh notebook, smoothing my palm over the blank page like I could calm myself through touch alone.
Everything felt harder now. Breathing. Sitting still. Existing.
But I’d perfected the act. Two months of pretending had made it second nature. Wearing Emery’s smile. Emery’s posture. Emery’s life. It was an easier price to pay for the death I caused.
Because no matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise, the truth never left me.
I was a murderer.
Sleep didn’t let me forget. My dreams…if they could even be called that—were constant reminders. Fire. Smoke. Screaming that never reached me in time. I woke up most nights gasping, my hands shaking, my chest .burning with guilt that never loosened its grip.
I blinked hard, swiping at tears that never fell.
Ever since that night, something inside me had gone numb. I couldn’t cry anymore. No matter how much I wanted to.
Maybe my body had decided it was pointless.
Maybe that was mercy.
Mr. Caldwell droned on about tragic heroes in literature—irony not lost on me but I tuned most of it out. My mind floated somewhere between the past and the present, never fully landing.
I was smart. I knew that. Smarter than most of the people in this room. If I hadn’t chosen music,if I hadn’t dared to want something different…I might’ve been everything my parents wanted.
I might’ve been enough.
I stayed half-present, copying notes mechanically, until the teacher’s voice sharpened just enough to pull me back.
“You’re late again, Asher.”
My pen stilled.
I lifted my gaze.
And there he was.
Asher Whitlock.
He stood near the doorway, tall and effortlessly confident, like the room bent around him without his permission. He was… unfairly handsome. Better than that night. Infuriatingly so.
Sharp cheekbones, blond hair falling just messily enough to look intentional, and eyes…blue, cold, and piercing.
The same eyes I’d seen widen in shock that night.
Girls giggled under their breaths, some not even bothering to hide it. I resisted the urge to scoff.
Of course. Every school had one. The untouchable. The boy everyone revolved around.
“Sorry,” Asher said, his tone lazy, unapologetic.
He didn’t sound sorry. Not even a little.
My fingers tightened around my pen as the realization slammed into me all at once.
Him.
The boy I’d poured juice on at the showcase.
The boy who bullied my sister.
The boy I was supposed to avoid.
How had I not thought of this?
I dropped my gaze back to my notebook, heart pounding. My plan had been simple…stay invisible, survive the semester, graduate as Emery. Now I had a problem.
Two of them.
Asher Whitlock and Madeline.
My blood ran cold.
He didn’t look at me as he walked past, and relief flooded me until he stopped.
Right behind me.
The chair scraped softly as he sat down.
I froze, my spine stiff, every nerve screaming.
Don’t turn.
Don’t look.
I didn’t want him to see me. Didn’t want him to recognize me. Didn’t want him to connect the girl in front of him to the one who’d humiliated him in front of an audience.
Because if Asher Whitlock realized who I was—
It wouldn’t just be a disaster.
It would be the beginning of something far worse.
