Chapter 2

I did not let Dr. Evans erase my memory.

When the heavy doors closed behind us, I looked him straight in the eyes.

"Dr. Evans, I heard every word you said outside," I said, lowering my voice to a calm, unruffled tone.

The clipboard slipped from his fingers and hit the carpet with a slap.

The blood drained from his face in an instant.

"Danica… you don't understand the medical complexities—"

"All I understand is that you practice medicine illegally for money, and that you helped my family destroy the evidence of a serious vehicular crime," I said. "I also understand that if you dare attach those electrodes to my head, I will walk straight out of here and go to the State Medical Board and the District Attorney's office."

Evans swallowed hard and picked the clipboard off the floor with shaking hands.

"What exactly do you want?" he asked.

"Fake this session," I said. "You will tell them the treatment was a complete success—that I have forgotten everything from the past week. And you will write into my official record that all my indicators are normal and that I am in good health."

Evans looked at the closed door, then at me.

"Today is only a routine suppression pass," he said, almost to himself. "The full purge is still scheduled for Wednesday. If I am going to lose my license, I would rather lose it for something I chose."

Slowly, he nodded. "All right. I'll do it."

For the next forty-five minutes, while the machines hummed their monotonous drone, I sat on the recliner without saying a word.

When the session ended, I walked out of the treatment room with my shoulders slightly slumped, feigning a dazed look.

Belinda, Derek, and Damian were overjoyed.

They took me back to Spencer Manor, convinced their secret was safe once again.

The next morning, sunlight spilled across the manor's neatly trimmed lawn.

It was my twenty-sixth birthday.

For five years, this house had not once said the word out loud.

I came down the wide, sweeping staircase into the luxurious, bright open kitchen.

The air smelled of frying bacon and toasted bread.

Belinda stood by the kitchen island in a beige cashmere sweater and printed trousers.

She turned around with a doting, motherly smile.

"Good morning, birthday girl," Belinda said, walking over to kiss my forehead.

For one brief instant, that long-buried longing deep inside me stirred again.

Some small part of me still hoped that she truly loved me.

"Morning, Mom," I said quietly.

"I made you a special breakfast," Belinda said, gesturing to a white porcelain bowl on the marble counter.

I looked into the bowl.

A baked omelet, stuffed with diced ham, mushrooms—and an enormous handful of raw cilantro.

Shredded cilantro blanketed the entire surface of the egg.

I carry the soap-tasting gene; in my mouth, cilantro tastes like crushed stinkbugs mixed with harsh soap.

A real allergy sits on top of that—the moment I swallow it, my throat begins to swell, and violent vomiting follows within ten minutes.

The allergy has been with me since I was two years old.

Jocelyn, however, adores cilantro and wants it in everything.

"Mom," I said, forcing my voice to stay flat, "I can't eat cilantro. I have a severe allergy to it."

The smile vanished from Belinda's face in an instant.

Her brow knitted, her expression filling with impatience.

"Danica, don't start picking fights first thing in the morning."

"I'm not picking a fight," I said. "I'm allergic to it. You know that."

"That's not an allergy, that's just picky eating," Belinda said, pushing the bowl toward me. "Your sister wanted an omelet with fresh cilantro this morning, and it was easier to make one big batch. Did you expect me to make two separate breakfasts at this hour? I stood over a hot stove cooking for you—be grateful. Eat it."

I looked down at that garish strip of green across the golden omelet.

The one time she remembered my birthday, and she used it to force something down my throat that would make me writhe.

Just then, the back door clicked open.

Derek walked into the kitchen in tennis shorts, carrying a glossy black shopping bag from an upscale boutique downtown.

Jocelyn followed close behind in a white tennis dress.

She looked a little pale, but her dark eyes were bright and lively.

"Look what Derek bought me!" Jocelyn squealed, clapping her hands.

From the black bag, Derek pulled out an emerald-green designer silk dress.

The hem shimmered with a soft luster in the morning light.

Delicate, intricate pearl beading trimmed the neckline.

My breath caught for half a second.

Three weeks ago, Derek had shown me a photo of this very dress in a fashion catalog.

"Danica, you've been working so hard at the office lately," he'd told me then.

"I'm going to order this dress for your twenty-sixth birthday. It's time you looked elegant and put-together for once."

For three full weeks, I had looked forward to that dress with all my heart.

And now Derek was holding it up against Jocelyn's shoulder.

"That color makes your eyes gorgeous, Josie," Derek said, gazing down at her with doting affection.

Jocelyn glanced at me, then lowered her head, pouting with delicate, wounded innocence.

"Derek… isn't today Danica's birthday? Didn't you say the green dress was for her?"

Derek waved a careless hand.

"Danica never attends the dinners or the charity balls. She sits in her cubicle in some logistics firm's finance department all day—when would she ever wear pure Italian silk? Josie, you're attending the symphony gala next weekend. Wear it and let the donors see how radiant you are."

He turned to me, his eyes carrying a warning and a challenge, certain I wouldn't dare voice a single complaint.

"You don't mind, do you, Danica? You're the older sister. Surely you want Josie to look her best?"

"Of course I don't mind," I said.

My voice was hollow, yet strangely calm.

"Let Jocelyn keep it. My closet couldn't hold it anyway."

Derek blinked, clearly thrown that I hadn't argued at all.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, frowning.

"My old room did have a walk-in closet," I said, my tone as smooth as still water. "But two years ago, Mom had the partition wall torn out and turned my closet into Jocelyn's private dressing room. I live now in the utility cubicle behind the laundry chute. It has exactly one wire hanger."

Belinda's face stiffened, then darkened.

"Danica, your room is perfectly well ventilated!" she snapped. "Jocelyn has medical needs—oxygen equipment and garments. Don't you dare guilt-trip us with old household arrangements!"

"I'm not guilt-tripping anyone," I said. "I'm stating facts."

I pushed the cilantro omelet aside, walked around the island, and headed for the pantry to grab an apple.

Jocelyn followed me in.

The pantry was narrow, its shelves lined with imported olive oil and gourmet snacks on both sides.

Jocelyn leaned against the doorframe, watching me pick out a green apple.

"Danica," Jocelyn murmured sweetly, her tone dripping with condescension.

"You really shouldn't blame Derek. He's only protective of me because of my heart condition. Whenever I'm under stress, my chest hurts terribly. You understand, don't you? You've always been the strong one. You never needed pretty dresses to prove anything."

I looked down at the apple in my hand.

Then I picked up the small paring knife from the wooden cutting board.

"I'm not angry, Jocelyn," I said evenly.

"Good," Jocelyn said, stepping a little closer with a soft sigh. "Actually, Damian was going to take me out to a fancy lunch today to celebrate my cardiac checkup coming back all clear. He asked me what flowers you like, and I told him you love plain little daisies. You don't mind, do you?"

A chill crawled up the back of my neck.

Damian was taking her out to celebrate—on my birthday.

I began peeling the apple.

Absurdity had my fingertips trembling faintly, out of control.

The sharp blade slipped on the taut skin.

The edge bit deep into the index finger of my left hand.

Thick, dark blood welled up at once.

Drops fell from my fingertip onto the cutting board, then spattered across the pristine marble floor.

"Damn it," I muttered, pressing my thumb hard against the cut.

Jocelyn looked down and saw the blood.

Her eyes flew wide.

Then came a shrill, piercing scream.

"Blood! Oh my God, so much blood!" Jocelyn clutched her chest, shrieking.

She stumbled out of the pantry, her breath gone quick and shallow.

"Mom! Derek! My chest… my heartbeat is all wrong!"

The kitchen exploded into chaos.

Belinda charged across the room, nearly overturning an island stool.

"Josie! Josie, baby, look at Mommy!" she cried, dropping to her knees beside Jocelyn, her voice cracking with tears.

Derek rushed forward and wrapped his powerful arms around Jocelyn.

"Breathe, Josie, breathe slowly! Where's her nitroglycerin spray? Someone get the spray!"

Just then, the front door swung open.

Damian walked in with his briefcase in one hand and a box of pastries in the other.

The moment he saw Jocelyn collapsed on the floor, gasping for air, his briefcase hit the wooden floor with a crash.

"What happened?!" Damian bellowed, sprinting forward.

"Danica was cutting fruit and got blood everywhere!" Belinda sobbed, a shaking finger pointed at the pantry. "Josie faints at the sight of blood! It's triggered an arrhythmia! Call an ambulance!"

"There's no time for an ambulance," Damian ordered, scooping Jocelyn up in his arms. "My car's outside. Derek, grab her medical file! Belinda, the car keys!"

I walked slowly out of the pantry, pressing paper towels against my bleeding hand.

The white towels were already soaked through with dark red.

The wound gaped to the bone, the flesh torn open, the yellow fat beneath visible.

"Damian," I said, standing a meter away from him, my voice low. "My finger is cut to the bone. I need stitches."

Damian turned his head and looked at me.

His eyes were utterly cold, without a trace of warmth.

He glanced at my bleeding hand—for less than a second.

"Danica, can you not be so selfish?" His voice was cutting and vicious. "You barely nicked yourself. Josie is having a heart attack! Slap a Band-Aid on it and mop the kitchen floor before we get back!"

Then he carried Jocelyn out the front door without a single look back.

Belinda and Derek rushed out after him.

The heavy door slammed shut.

The echo rang through the vast, dead-silent mansion.

The house sank into a grave-like hush.

The only sound left was the soft drip of my blood, hitting the floor one drop at a time.

I stood alone in the middle of the kitchen.

My finger throbbed in deep, rhythmic pulses.

I shuffled down the back corridor to the guest bathroom.

I opened the mirrored cabinet.

There wasn't a single piece of sterile gauze left inside.

Every usable first-aid supply had long since been moved upstairs to Jocelyn's master suite.

In the bottom drawer, I dug out a box of damp, outdated Band-Aids and a bottle of rubbing alcohol three years past its expiration date.

I unscrewed the cap and poured the alcohol directly over the torn, gaping wound.

The burning pain was like being doused in fire.

I clenched my teeth and made no sound at all.

I tore open three Band-Aids and bound the split wound tight until the bleeding slowed.

Then I walked back to the kitchen.

I pulled out a fresh roll of paper towels, bent down, and wiped every drop of blood from the floor.

I threw the stained towels into the trash.

Then I sat down by the island and, expressionless, ate the few slices of green apple I had managed to cut before the knife slipped.

At two in the afternoon, the phone on the counter buzzed.

A text from Damian.

"Josie's ECG is stable. The doctor says she needs one night of observation; we'll all be with her in the ICU tonight. Don't forget your follow-up session tomorrow at three. Be ready on time."

I stared quietly at the screen.

He never asked whether my bleeding had stopped.

Never asked whether I had eaten lunch.

Never said happy birthday.

I tapped the screen and replied with a single word:

"Okay."

I set the phone down, chewed the crisp, tart apple slices, and watched the dark clouds gathering on the horizon outside the window.

Tomorrow was coming.

And tomorrow would be the last day of their lives they ever saw me.