Chapter 3

The briefing room was cold. The air conditioning hummed, a stark contrast to the heated, urgent voices of the detectives. My face, or what was left of it, was projected onto a large screen. It was a sterile, graphic image from the morgue.

My father stood at the head of the table, his expression like stone. He was in his element. This was his world: crime, justice, and control.

"The M.E.'s preliminary report," a detective said, his voice flat. "Cause of death is asphyxiation, but not before significant trauma. The killer took his time. This was personal."

The room was silent. Even these hardened cops were shaken.

"The location where the body was found was a dump site," the detective continued. "No witnesses, no surveillance. We're starting from absolute zero."

My father's fist clenched on the table. "I want every available officer on this. Check missing persons reports for the entire tri-state area. I want to know who this girl is. I want a name."

His command filled the room. No one would guess that just an hour ago, he was complaining about the inconvenience of it all. Now, he was the picture of righteous fury. It was a good look for the cameras.

Later that day, the pretense of the perfect family was back on full display in their gleaming, minimalist mansion. The championship trophy Javon had won last season sat on the mantelpiece, polished and gleaming under a spotlight. My violin, the one I had to beg for, was in its case in my room, gathering dust.

Javon, my adopted brother, swaggered into the kitchen. He was the star quarterback, the king of his high school, the sun around which my parents' world revolved.

"Mom, Dad," he said, flashing his perfect smile. "Big game tomorrow. You're coming, right? Front row?"

My mother' s face, so tight and professional just hours before, melted. "Of course, sweetheart. We wouldn't miss it for the world."

My father clapped him on the back. "You're going to kill it out there, son. Make us proud."

"I always do," Javon said, his eyes glinting. He grabbed an apple from the counter. "Hey, any word from Kelsie?"

His tone was light, casual. Too casual.

"Nothing," my father grunted. "Don't worry about her. Focus on your game."

"I am," Javon said, taking a bite of the apple. "It's just... I worry about her. She's so fragile."

He was a master manipulator. He played the part of the concerned brother perfectly, all while knowing exactly where I was. He knew because he had put me there.

I remembered the last time I saw him. The way he smiled that same charming smile as he pushed me towards Dante Gomez. The way he looked at me with such pure, unadulterated hatred. I had seen flashes of it before, in a sneer he thought no one saw, in a "playful" shove that was a little too hard.

I had tried to tell my parents. I scratched him once, during a fight where he'd twisted my arm behind my back until I cried. I drew blood.

They had been furious. With me.

"He's your brother, Kelsie! How could you?" my mother had screamed, her face contorted with rage. I was grounded for a month. Javon had stood behind her, a triumphant smirk on his face.

Now, in the cold, sterile light of the morgue, my mother was examining my body again. Her gloved finger traced a thin, white line on my forearm. A scar.

I held my breath. It was an old scar, from when I was lost, from before I came back to them. A dog bite.

"This is an old injury," she noted to the medical examiner's assistant. "Well-healed."

She had seen it the day I came home. I was twelve years old, thin and scared. She'd been helping me change.

"What's this?" she had asked, her lip curling in disgust. "Ugly."

She touched it now, her finger lingering on the mark. For a second, I saw a flicker of something in her eyes. A memory trying to surface.

Please, I begged the silent room. Please remember.

But then she shook her head, dismissing it. "Probably from a rough life. This girl... she was clearly in a bad situation long before she met our killer."

The flicker was gone. The wall was back up.

She turned away from me. "Let's focus on the new injuries."

The recognition, the connection I craved, was right there. But she couldn't see it. She wouldn't see it. Because in her mind, her daughter Kelsie was safe, just being difficult. And the girl on the table was just another piece of street trash who had met a bad end.