Chapter 1

I was standing behind our neighbor’s door, listening to my mother accused me of my “crimes” to the police. Every word jabbed into my chest like a needle, causing me so much pain that I could hardly breathe.

I never imagined that for the sake of an outsider, my own mother could be this ruthless to her biological daughter.

This was a murder charge. If it were confirmed, my life would be over. But Mom never cared. She never cared whether I, her real daughter, lived or died. She only doted on my stepfather’s girl—held Megan in her palm like a jewel.

Just yesterday, Megan’s hand was bruised and Mom took time off to pick her up from school herself. My stomach ached so bad that I was sweating through my uniform. When my teacher called, Mom said indifferently, “I’m at work. I don’t have time.”

I got the IV drip at the hospital alone and dragged myself back home afterward.

Mom was busy cooking in the kitchen. My stepfather, George, and Megan were decorating the living room. Balloons on the wall spelled out “Happy Birthday,” and my eyes blurred.

Right then I remembered: today was my seventeenth birthday.

“You’re so late, Grace! We’ve been waiting for long,” Megan rushed out to greet me, beaming.

Mom poked her head from the kitchen, voice warm: “Wash your hands, sweetheart. Dinner’s ready.”

That kind of warmth—I’d never felt it before. For a moment I thought I was dreaming. It was a dream. Worse than a dream—more absurd, more terrifying.