Chapter 3

Noah stood frozen in the hallway for a moment, startled by my words. Then, as if shaking himself out of a trance, he came to my door and knocked softly.

"Sarah? Don't say things like that. Of course, we don't want you to die." His voice was laced with a practiced, hollow concern that made my stomach turn.

I didn't answer. I just stood on the other side of the door, listening.

"I know this is hard for you," he continued, his voice seeping under the door like a poison. "But we can get through this. Remember what I promised you? A future. For us. It's still possible. Once Chloe is stable and you've had time to adjust, we can put all this behind us."

His words were a cruel echo of the lies he had fed me three years ago. The promise of a future, always just out of reach, a carrot dangled to ensure my compliance. The bitterness rose in my throat, hot and acidic.

"A future?" I said, my voice dripping with a sarcasm I didn't bother to hide. "The kind of future where I'm locked away and you're celebrating my replacement? No thank you, Noah. I'd rather be dead."

There was a heavy silence from the other side. "I'll talk to Ethan," he finally said, his tone defeated. "We'll figure something out."

I heard his footsteps retreat down the hall. I leaned my head against the cool wood of the door, a single, mirthless laugh escaping my lips. They would "figure something out." They always did, and it always involved my sacrifice for Chloe's benefit.

The pain in my arm where Chloe had grabbed me was a throbbing reminder of the morning's events. I went into the small, attached bathroom and looked at the angry red marks, the small crescent-shaped cuts from her nails. I cleaned the scratches with an antiseptic wipe, the sting grounding me, focusing my anger into a cold, hard resolve.

Later, I heard Ethan's booming voice from Chloe's room, followed by her soft, manipulative sobs. He was comforting her, no doubt, promising to protect her from the "unstable" monster down the hall. The sound was a familiar symphony of my life for the past five years. Me, the villain; Chloe, the perpetual victim.

I lay on the lumpy mattress, closing my eyes, trying to shut out the world. But sleep wouldn't come. My phone buzzed again. Another text from Chloe.

"Ethan is so sweet. He's bringing me my favorite ice cream. He said he' s going to hire a therapist for you. Maybe even a full-time nurse. To make sure you don't hurt yourself... or anyone else."

Another message followed a minute later.

"Noah is here too. He feels so guilty about what happened. He said he should have protected me better. Don't worry, I told him it wasn't his fault. It's yours."

And then the final, chilling message.

"Everything you ever wanted, Sarah. Everyone you ever loved. They're all mine now. And soon, this house will be all mine too. There's no place for you here. There's no place for you anywhere."

My fingers tightened around the phone. She was right. As long as I was Sarah Miller, the disgraced adopted daughter, I had no place. I was a ghost in my own life, a problem to be managed. But I wasn't just Sarah Miller anymore.

I was Olivia Hayes.

And Olivia Hayes was not a victim. Olivia Hayes was a survivor. A plan began to form in my mind, a desperate, audacious idea. My words to Noah echoed back to me. If I have to die for you people to believe me...

What if I did?

What if Sarah Miller died? A tragic accident. The unstable ex-convict, unable to cope with her new reality, takes her own life. It was a narrative they had already written for me. They would believe it. They would be sad, of course, for a little while. They would feel a pang of guilt. But mostly, they would feel relief. The problem would be gone.

And while they mourned the ghost of Sarah Miller, Olivia Hayes would be on a plane to Europe, to a new life, a new family, a new future. A future that was truly mine.

The idea took root, growing from a desperate spark into a blazing fire of purpose. I got up from the bed, my movements now filled with a strange energy. I went online, my fingers flying across the cheap phone's screen. I searched for "theatrical props," "special effects," and "hyper-realistic mannequins." It was a long shot, but my new brother had resources. He had promised me everything. I sent him a coded message, explaining the bare bones of my plan. The reply was almost instantaneous. A link to a high-end special effects supplier and a credit card number with an astronomical limit.

Then, I did one last thing. I ordered a set of miniature, high-definition surveillance cameras. The kind used for home security, small enough to be hidden easily. I had them rush-delivered to a nearby 24-hour pickup locker.

I was going to die. But before I did, I was going to make sure the world knew exactly who killed me.