Chapter 3
Patricia's POV
The funeral went ahead as scheduled.
I stood in front of three empty caskets in my black dress, clutching a crumpled tissue. When the pastor began, I let my head drop. Let my shoulders shake.
"Lord, please take these souls into your care..."
I covered my mouth and broke down crying.
Diane's arm wrapped around me. "Patty, honey... I know, I know... just breathe, okay?"
I collapsed against her shoulder, tears streaming down my face. Everyone stood around with red eyes, whispering about my terrible loss.
An older detective walked over and squeezed my shoulder, sighed. "Hang in there, kid. I know it's rough. But you're young—you got your whole life ahead of you."
"I know, officer." I looked up at him, voice breaking. "I will. I'll live for all of them."
After the service, I took the police report to city hall and filed for official death certificates.
Three stamped pieces of paper. That's all it took.
In America, a death certificate ends everything.
Next morning, I walked into the Social Security Administration.
"I need to deactivate these Social Security numbers." I slid the death certificates and IDs across the counter.
The clerk checked everything, typed away. "Done. As of right now, these numbers don't exist anymore."
"Thank you."
I stepped out into bright sunshine.
No Social Security number meant they were legally dead. No bank accounts. No legitimate jobs. Couldn't rent. Couldn't buy cars. Couldn't even get a credit card. The system had erased them completely.
Next stop: the bank.
As Vincent and Helena's sole legal heir, I walked in with death certificates and notarized documents. Took over everything.
"I want everything transferred to my personal account." I set down my coffee, looked the manager dead in the eye. "The joint accounts. The savings. Avery's education fund. Everything."
"Including the college fund? You're sure?"
"Down to the last cent. And cancel every card they had."
I watched my account balance jump by over a hundred thousand dollars. Money they'd saved for Avery's New York shopping sprees. Now it was mine. My ticket out.
Third stop: a real estate agent known for getting shit done fast.
The house was paid off—Vincent and Helena owned it outright. Now the deed belonged to me.
"I need to unload this place. Fast." I gestured around. "Worth eight hundred easy. I'll take five. Cash only. And I want a buyer who's... let's say, not someone you'd wanna mess with."
The agent was sharp. Got it immediately. "Oh, I got the perfect guy. Name's John. Runs some, uh, 'entertainment' businesses. Bit of a mean streak, but he loves a bargain. He'll have cash by tomorrow if the numbers work."
Everything moved fast.
Two days later, I handed the keys to a tattooed man built like a tank. Walked away with a cashier's check for five hundred grand.
"House is yours, John."
"Smart girl." John exhaled cigar smoke. "Anybody comes sniffing around about this place, they're gonna meet my Remington real personal-like."
I grabbed my suitcase and caught a flight to Boston. Six hundred thousand in the bank. Harvard had been incredibly sympathetic about my "family tragedy"—reissued my acceptance and threw in financial aid.
I sat in first class with a glass of champagne, watching clouds drift by.
Deleted every contact from that old life. Every single one.
The show was just getting started.
One month later.
A yellow cab pulled up to the house.
Vincent, Helena, and Avery climbed out with massive LV suitcases, wearing bright vacation clothes, skin dark from weeks in the sun.
"Oh thank GOD!" Avery yanked off her sunglasses, stretching. "Bahamas was sick, but I'm ready for my own bed. And to see Patricia's pathetic face."
"Bet you anything she's been crying herself to sleep every night." Vincent pulled out his key, walking toward the door with that familiar swagger.
Helena fluffed her hair, laughing. "Oh, she TOTALLY thinks she killed us. Probably hasn't eaten in weeks."
"We tell her some bullshit 'miracle rescue' story and boom—she's ours. Forever." Avery aimed her phone at the door. "This is gonna be GOLD."
"From now on, she does whatever we say." Helena's voice dripped poison. "And if she doesn't? We just remind her she 'murdered' us once."
Vincent jammed the key in the lock. "Harvard, scholarships—all of it, gone—"
The key wouldn't turn.
"What the hell?" Vincent twisted harder. "Is this thing broken?"
"PATRICIA!" He hammered on the door. "Open this goddamn door RIGHT NOW!"
Heavy footsteps from inside.
"Told you." Avery held up her phone, grinning wide. "Get ready for the waterworks."
The door swung open.
But it wasn't the skeletal, broken Patricia they'd been expecting.
It was a shirtless man with a massive snake tattooed across his chest. Built like he bench-pressed cars for fun.
Vincent froze, fist still raised. "Who the FUCK—what the—who ARE you?!"
John looked them up and down. Didn't say a word. Just reached behind the door and pulled out a black Remington shotgun.
CLACK-CLACK.
Cold metal pressed against Vincent's forehead.
"You're trespassing." John's voice was dead calm. "Three seconds. Then I blow your fucking brains out."
