Chapter 1

The last thing I saw was a boot.

Coming straight for my face.

Then, blackness.

A crushing weight on my chest.

Screams, not mine, but close.

The smell of gasoline.

Fire.

I jolted awake, gasping.

My own bed. Clean sheets. Mark breathing softly beside me.

The digital clock glowed: 3:17 AM. September 12th.

One week.

One week until the college health screenings.

One week until Ashley and Emily' s pregnancies were officially discovered.

One week until they pointed their fingers at Mark.

At us.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild bird trapped.

It wasn't a dream.

The phantom pain of broken bones, the searing heat, it all lingered.

I remembered.

The whispers turning to shouts.

"Child abusers!"

"He got them pregnant!"

Mark' s medical report, the one showing zero sperm count, clutched in my hand, ignored.

Torn from my grasp.

The first rock hitting my temple.

The mob dragging me from our porch.

Mark, trying to shield me, overwhelmed.

They killed me.

Right there on our lawn.

And now, I was back.

Alive.

A cold certainty settled in my gut.

I had one chance.

To stop it.

To save Mark.

To save our names.

To expose the real monsters.

Ashley. Emily.

Our adopted daughters.

The ones we loved.

The ones who smiled so sweetly while they planned our destruction.

I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Mark.

The floorboards were cool under my bare feet.

I walked to the window, looking out at the quiet street.

Last time, this street became a stage for our public execution.

Neighbors, people we' d shared barbecues with, turned into a frenzied mob.

All because of lies.

Ashley, 18, charismatic, a master manipulator.

Emily, 17, quieter, but easily led, a willing accomplice.

They stood on our porch, tears streaming, accusing Mark of the unthinkable.

Their bellies, just starting to show.

The community, so quick to believe, so eager to condemn.

Mark' s azoospermia diagnosis, from a top clinic, dismissed as a desperate forgery.

"He paid them off!" someone had screamed.

The memory made me sick.

This time, I wouldn' t be naive.

This time, I knew their game.

And I would play it better.

My reflection stared back from the dark glass, a stranger with haunted eyes.

But behind the fear, a new hardness.

I wouldn't die again.

They wouldn't win.