Chapter 3

I had to do something. The police wouldn't help, lawyers were scared, and the university had caved.

I still had the footage from the neighboring store. Mr. Henderson, the owner, was an old friend of Dad's and had slipped me a copy before, I suspect, Henderson's goons paid him a visit too.

It was grainy, but clear enough. Mark Henderson, his face twisted in a snarl, directing his thugs. Emily trying to defend herself, then going down.

My hands shook as I uploaded it to social media, along with our story. What the Hendersons did, how the police dismissed it, how my scholarship was stolen.

#JusticeForEmily #MillersPlate.

For a few hours, it felt like it was working. Comments poured in, messages of support, outrage. People shared it.

Maybe, just maybe, public pressure could do what the system wouldn't.

Then, just as quickly, it vanished.

My posts were taken down. "Violated community standards," the notifications said.

Bull.

Then the counter-narrative started. Anonymous accounts, suddenly very active, posting lies.

"Miller sisters trying to extort money from respected businessman."

"Emily Miller known for her violent temper, probably started the fight."

"Sarah Miller a troublemaker, no wonder the university dropped her."

It was a flood of filth, drowning out the truth. Henderson' s money at work, buying trolls, manipulating the narrative.

My friends tried to defend us, but their posts were buried or reported too.

I felt sick. They could control everything, even what people saw and believed.

My phone buzzed. A restricted number.

"Sarah Miller?" A gravelly voice I didn't recognize.

"Who is this?"

"Just a friendly warning. Drop it. You're making powerful people unhappy. You don't want to know what happens next."

The line clicked dead.

Fear, cold and sharp, pricked at me. But it was quickly followed by a surge of defiance.

Unhappy? I' d show them unhappy.

I tried to re-upload the video, using different accounts, different platforms. Each time, it was taken down faster.

They were watching.

That night, I was at the hospital, dozing in the uncomfortable visitor' s chair beside Emily' s bed. The doctor had said she was showing small signs of improvement, a tiny flicker of light in the overwhelming darkness.

My phone rang. It was our neighbor, Mrs. Henderson, her voice frantic.

"Sarah! Your house! Oh, dear God, Sarah, you need to come home!"

My blood ran cold.

I raced home, my heart pounding in my chest.

The front door was kicked in, hanging crookedly on its hinges.

Inside, it was chaos.

They had destroyed everything. Furniture slashed, pictures smashed, clothes ripped and thrown everywhere. Our small, cherished home, violated.

And then I saw him.

Patches, our ginger cat, Emily' s shadow, the one constant purring presence in our lives since he was a kitten.

He was lying in the middle of the living room floor, still.

Too still.

A small, handwritten note was pinned to his collar.

"Next time, it' s you."

A strangled sob escaped me. I sank to my knees, the world tilting.

They killed our cat. Our sweet, innocent Patches.

The police came, of course. Same routine.

"No forced entry obvious, Miss Miller."

"Any idea who might have done this?"

"No viable leads at this time."

I didn't even have the energy to scream at them anymore. What was the point?

I felt utterly, completely alone. Defeated.

They had taken my sister' s health, my future, our home' s sanctity, and now, a beloved pet.

What else was left?