Chapter 2

Andrew scoffed, leaning his expensive frame against the door. He looked Stella up and down as if she were a bug.

"What' s Gabby' s new angle? Faking her own death to make me feel guilty?"

He shook his head, a humorless smile on his face.

"She was reckless enough to cause that studio 'accident' that nearly crippled Molly. I just froze her credit cards, and she runs off and pulls this stunt?"

He wasn' t finished.

"Molly' s leukemia is back. If it weren' t for that, I wouldn' t even be here giving her a second chance."

Stella' s face hardened, her knuckles white as she gripped the doorknob.

"My sister is dead. You 'giving her a chance' is the sickest joke I' ve ever heard."

Andrew' s gaze flickered past her, catching movement inside the house. A scruffy, three-legged terrier, a rescue I named Banjo, wagged his tail hopefully.

Andrew' s eyes lit up with a cruel sort of victory.

"You' re a terrible liar. Banjo' s here. Where could Gabby be?"

He pushed himself off the doorframe, his voice low and threatening.

"Tell her I' m offering her an out. If she doesn' t take it, she can forget ever hearing from me again."

As if he understood the threat, Banjo limped forward, his tail now tucked between his legs. He let out a weak bark at Andrew' s polished leather boots. My soul, a silent, helpless observer, ached as I saw the dog tremble.

The last time Banjo did that was two years ago. He' d bitten Andrew for shoving me against a wall. Andrew kicked him, a sickening thud that echoed in my memory. The kick broke Banjo's hip, leaving him with a permanent limp.

"Get that damn mutt away from me before I finish the job," Andrew snarled, his face twisting in disgust.

Stella immediately scooped the little dog into her arms, holding him tight.

"She' s dead! If she were alive, I' d make sure she was a thousand miles away from you, with a man who actually loved her, not a monster like you!"

Andrew' s lip curled.

"So she' s shacked up with some other musician? Figures. Molly was right, you can' t trust a girl with a guitar and a sob story. I can' t believe I married her."

The words were a physical blow, even to my spirit. The pain was as real and sharp as it was when I was alive.

"Get the hell out of my house!" Stella screamed, her voice cracking with rage and grief.

Andrew' s eyes turned to ice.

"Your house? This house?" he said softly, the quietness more menacing than his yelling. "The down payment came from me. The money that paid for your father' s cancer treatments? That was me too. Your brother' s truck? Me. Did your sister forget to mention that?"

He was right. He had bailed my family out of financial ruin. That' s why I felt I owed him everything, why I agreed to the donation.

But he didn't know the whole truth. He never knew.

I was born with Fanconi anemia, a rare genetic condition. It made me a high-risk bone marrow donor. The doctors Molly hired for the procedure, the ones Andrew paid for, never told him. They also gave me a dangerously low dose of anesthesia during the extraction.

I was conscious, paralyzed, feeling every excruciating moment as they drilled into my bones and harvested my marrow. The procedure left me critically weakened. I died from post-procedure complications and septic shock less than two weeks later, while Andrew was in Aspen, celebrating Molly' s "remission."

"If you don' t believe me," Stella choked out, tears streaming down her face, "go check the records at Vanderbilt University Medical Center! Her death certificate is on file!"

Andrew let out a cold, sharp laugh.

"I already did. They told me she was discharged in stable condition. Try again."

The hospital records had been falsified. A lie so simple, so clean, and he believed it without a single question.

Just then, my brother Matthew' s pickup truck screeched to a halt in the driveway, kicking up gravel. He jumped out, his work clothes covered in drywall dust, his eyes burning with a rage that matched Stella' s.

"Andrew Scott!" he roared, storming toward the porch. "You have no business being here!"