Mom, still hysterical, clung to my leg,
begging. Dad shed a single tear, a drop of
blood from his bloodshot eye. The door
opened. It was Chloe, looking surprisingly
healthy, her cheeks flushed, a triumphant glint
in her eyes. I saw the folder in her hand. Photos of me beating her. She couldn’t speak, so she’d gathered evidence, hoping to turn my parents against me, to secure her place
<
as their heir. A good plan. Yesterday, even
this morning, it might have worked. But she
was too late.
Before she could raise the folder, Dad
slapped her across the face, knocking her to
the ground. Mom pounced, grabbing the
burner phone, screaming, “Was it you? You
tried to kill my Ashley! If she hadn’t been so
strong, she’d be dead!” “We treated you like
our own daughter! And this is how you repay
us? You’re a monster! I was wrong about you!
You have no heart! You should die!” The
triumph in Chloe’s eyes vanished when she
saw the phone.
Chloe couldn’t speak.
