Chapter 2

I stared at the date on the calendar, my mind racing. It was real. I was back. The crushing weight of betrayal and the phantom pain of my last moments were still fresh, but a new feeling was rising from the ashes of my old life: cold, hard rage.

I looked around the small, cramped room. This was my prison for the next fifteen years in my past life. A life of sacrifice for a pack of liars and a traitor.

I heard a small sniffle from the hallway. I opened the door and saw my brother, Alex, sitting on the floor. He was only six years old. A small, skinny kid with big, tear-filled eyes. In my first life, my heart broke for him. I had scooped him up, held him tight, and promised I would always take care of him.

Now, looking at his face, I saw the ghost of the man who would one day watch me die.

"Sarah?" he whimpered. "Are Mom and Dad really gone forever?"

I looked down at him, my expression unreadable. The innocent child in front of me and the cold-hearted monster he would become warred in my mind. I felt a flicker of pity, but it was quickly extinguished by the fire of my anger. He was their son. He carried their selfish blood.

"Yes, Alex," I said, my voice flat. "They' re gone."

I didn' t hug him. I didn' t comfort him. I simply stepped over him and walked into the living room.

Relatives were gathered, speaking in hushed, somber tones. They were all part of the lie, I realized. They all probably suspected something was off, but it was easier to mourn and move on.

In my first life, I was the perfect, grieving daughter. I accepted their condolences, their pitying looks. I shouldered the burden without a single complaint. I dropped out of high school just weeks before my own graduation. My acceptance letter from the art institute, my full scholarship-I tore them up myself because we needed money immediately.

I sold my father' s old car for a few hundred dollars to pay the electric bill. I started my first waitressing job the week after the funeral. I juggled homework for Alex, parent-teacher conferences, and double shifts. I learned to cook, to clean, to budget, to be a mother and a father to a boy who wasn' t even my real brother.

And for what? To be discarded like a piece of trash once my job was done.

"Sarah, honey, you should get ready," my aunt Susan said, placing a hand on my arm. "The service starts in an hour."

I looked at her, then at the others. Their faces were masks of fake sympathy.

"No," I said.

The room fell silent. Everyone looked at me.

"What do you mean, no?" Uncle Robert asked, his brow furrowed.

"I' m not going," I said, my voice gaining strength.

"Sarah, you have to," Susan hissed, her grip tightening. "What will people think? It' s your parents' funeral!"

My parents. The word tasted like poison.

"My parents are not in those coffins," I said, loud and clear.

Gasps echoed through the room. My aunt' s face turned pale.

"Sarah, grief can make you say crazy things," Robert said, trying to sound soothing. "You' re in shock."

"Am I?" I looked him dead in the eye. "Or are you just worried the truth will come out?"

I knew from whispers I' d overheard in my past life that Robert had co-signed a large loan for my father. He was just as desperate for David and Mary to disappear as they were.

His face turned red. "That' s enough! You will go to that funeral, and you will act like a grieving daughter."

I laughed. It was a hollow, bitter sound that startled everyone, including myself.

"You want me to act? Fine. I' ll give you a performance you' ll never forget."

I turned and walked back to my room, ignoring their shocked whispers. I put on the black dress. I looked at myself in the mirror. The girl staring back was young and lost, but her eyes held a darkness that wasn' t there before. The naive, self-sacrificing Sarah Miller was dead. She died in an alley behind a fancy hall.

The person looking back was a survivor. And she was going to burn their whole world to the ground.

I walked out of the room, my head held high. Alex was still in the hallway, looking scared and confused by my behavior.

"Come on, Alex," I said, my voice softer but still firm. "We have to go say goodbye."

I took his small hand. It felt strange. This was the hand of my future killer. It was also the centerpiece of my revenge.

In my first life, I protected him from the world. In this life, I would mold him. I would make him brilliant, successful, and a shining beacon of hope. A beacon so bright that his greedy, worthless parents wouldn't be able to resist crawling out of the shadows to claim him.

And when they did, I would be waiting.

I squeezed his hand, a little too tightly. He flinched.

"Don' t worry, Alex," I whispered, leaning down. "I' ll take care of everything."

He looked up at me, his innocent eyes searching my face. He couldn' t see the storm raging behind my calm expression. He couldn' t know that his entire future was now just a chapter in my revenge story.

The funeral was their first act. My performance was about to begin.