Chapter 3

I woke up to the steady beeping of a machine and the sterile smell of antiseptic. A hospital. Of course. I couldn' t even die right.

My side throbbed with a dull, persistent pain. I was alive. I was furious.

Andrew was sitting in a chair by the window, staring at me. The horror I' d seen on his face in the store was gone, replaced by his usual look of suspicion and contempt.

"You' re awake," he said. His voice was flat.

"Unfortunately," I replied.

He stood up and walked over to the bed. "The police are outside. They said you pushed that girl out of the way. They' re calling you a hero."

He said the word 'hero' like it was a disease.

"They also said the kidnappers claim we refused to pay the ransom. That we told them to do whatever they wanted with you."

"You did," I reminded him.

He ignored me. "This is quite a story you' ve cooked up, Jocelyn. A kidnapping, a robbery, a heroic sacrifice. You' re really pulling out all the stops to make us look bad, aren' t you?"

I just stared at him. The sheer arrogance, the complete refusal to believe anything but his own narrative, was breathtaking. He genuinely thought I had orchestrated all of this. That I had hired two morons to kidnap me, then arranged to get myself stabbed, all for sympathy.

"You' re pathetic," I said, my voice quiet.

His face tightened. "And you' re a liar. Stella is worried sick about you. She feels so guilty. She thinks it' s her fault you' re acting out like this."

Of course. It was always about Stella. Saint Stella, the perfect daughter, who was probably at home right now, enjoying the drama.

I remembered the day I first met them. It was just a few weeks ago. A social worker had found me, told me my birth parents were the Duncans. I had a sliver of hope then. A stupid, childish hope that maybe, finally, I would have a family.

I went to their mansion in the cheap t-shirt and worn-out jeans I owned. They stood in their marble foyer, looking at me like I was a piece of trash that had blown in from the street.

Mr. Duncan just stared. Mrs. Duncan wrinkled her nose. "Is this some kind of joke?" she' d asked the social worker.

Andrew had sneered. "So this is what gutter trash looks like up close."

Stella was the only one who smiled. A bright, fake smile. "Welcome home," she' d said, but her eyes were cold. They threw me a room in the back, near the staff quarters, and then ignored me. That hope died fast. It was replaced by the cold, hard certainty that I was, and always would be, alone.

Now, looking at Andrew' s smug face in this hospital room, I felt that same cold certainty.

I was done. I was done with him, with them, with all of it.

I waited until he turned his back to answer a call. His voice was low, soothing. "I know, Stella. Don' t worry. I' m handling it."

I slowly, carefully, pulled the IV out of my arm. I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The stab wound screamed in protest, but I ignored it.

I stood up, my legs shaky.

I walked to the window.

It was on the tenth floor. High enough.

I put my hand on the latch.

"What are you doing?" Andrew' s voice was sharp.

I didn' t answer. I just pushed the window open. The city air rushed in, cold and loud.

I stepped up onto the sill.

"Jocelyn! Stop! Get down from there!"

His voice was different now. The arrogance was gone. It was replaced by raw, genuine panic.

I looked down at the street below. The cars looked like toys. It was a long way down.

"Jocelyn, please!"

I turned to look at him. His face was white. For the first time, I saw real fear in his eyes. The kind of fear you can' t fake.

He was finally getting it. This wasn' t a game. This wasn' t a performance.

I really, truly wanted to die.

I smiled, a real smile for the first time in a long time. "Goodbye, Andrew."

And I jumped.