Chapter 1

My grandmother, Stella, is dead. I buried her myself three days ago.

I buried her in the old church cemetery on the hill, the one my parents always said was reserved for them. I did it because they wanted to throw her body in the industrial lot where the stray dogs feed.

They don' t know what I' ve done. Not yet.

But something is wrong. The air in our house feels heavy, and a coldness has settled in the walls that has nothing to do with the autumn chill. My younger brother, Matthew, has a fever that won't break.

My mother thinks it' s just bad luck.

I know better. I think Grandma Stella is already answering my promise.

It all started on a Tuesday night, just a week ago. The wind was howling outside our thin walls, and I could hear Grandma Stella moaning from her room down the hall.

Her arthritis was a fire in her joints, and the cold made it worse.

"Please, Debra," she cried out, her voice thin and cracking. "Just one pill. For the pain."

I heard my mother, Debra, slam a cabinet door in the kitchen.

"Shut up, old woman," she yelled back. "You think those pills are free? You' re a drain, you hear me? A useless mouth to feed."

I lay in my bed, my hands clenched into fists under the thin blanket. Every moan from my grandmother' s room was a physical blow. I couldn't stand it.

I got up and crept into the hallway. The floorboards groaned under my feet. I saw my mother standing in the kitchen doorway, her face a mask of pure resentment.

"I can get it for her," I whispered. "The bottle is right there."

My mother' s eyes snapped to me. She crossed the distance between us in two long strides. Her hand came up and smacked me hard across the face. The sting was sharp and immediate, bringing tears to my eyes.

"You worthless girl," she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "You' re the reason we' re in this mess. Her suffering is her own damn fault, and so are you."

She shoved me back toward my room. "Get in there and don' t come out. Let the old hag cry."

I stumbled back, catching myself on the doorframe. My father, Brian, was sitting in his armchair in the living room, staring at the blank TV screen. He heard everything. He saw everything. And he did nothing. He just sank deeper into his chair, a man made of shadows.

I retreated to my room and closed the door. I pressed my ear against the wood, listening to my grandmother' s pained whimpers until, eventually, they faded into a terrible, heavy silence.

The next morning, the silence was still there. It was too quiet.

My mother sent me to check on her. "Go wake up the old woman. Tell her if she wants breakfast, she can get up and make it herself."

I knew before I opened the door. The cold in her room was different. It was still and final.

Grandma Stella was lying in her bed, her eyes closed, her hands folded peacefully on her chest. She looked smaller than I' d ever seen her. For a moment, I felt a wave of relief. Her pain was over.

Then the horror washed in.

I went back to the kitchen. My voice was a dry croak. "She' s gone."

My mother didn't even look up from the cracked cup of coffee she was holding. "Good."

Then she must have remembered the neighbors. She put on a show, running to the phone, her voice suddenly filled with fake sobs as she called for an ambulance. People from next door came over, offering condolences, patting my mother' s shoulder as she cried crocodile tears. My father stood by her side, looking blank and lost.

Once they were all gone, the act dropped.

Debra walked over to Stella' s room and looked at the body.

"Finally," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "Trash. That' s all she is now. Should have died years ago."

She turned to me, her eyes cold and hard. "She was no help when Matthew was born. Not a dime. All her savings, gone. For what? To leave us with nothing."

It was a lie. Grandma Stella had given them every penny she had from the factory. She used it to help with my medical bills when I was a kid. But my mother had rewritten history to fit her own bitterness.

"You," she said, pointing a finger at me. "You' re going to get rid of it."

"Get rid of what?" I asked, my stomach twisting.

"The body," she snapped. "Take the wheelbarrow. Dump it in the old industrial lot behind the cannery. The dogs will take care of it."

My blood ran cold. I stared at her, unable to believe what I was hearing. My father just stood there, looking at the floor, refusing to meet my eyes. He was letting this happen.

"No," I whispered.

Her face contorted with rage. "What did you say?"

"I won't do that," I said, my voice shaking but firm.

She grabbed a heavy cast-iron skillet from the stove. "You will do as I say, or I will beat you until you can' t stand."

I knew she meant it. I had felt her rage before. But this was different. This was for Grandma Stella.

"Okay," I said, dropping my eyes to the floor. "I' ll do it."

But I was lying. As I walked toward my grandmother' s room, a new plan was forming in my mind. A plan for justice.