Standing in that kitchen again, I could smell the over-roasted coffee and the metallic tang of my own blood. In my previous life, this was the moment I shattered. Looking into my sister’s wide, innocent eyes, my heart had softened. I took on her predatory payday loans, tethering myself to a debt that wasn’t mine. From that day on, my mother branded me with the labels "vain" and "wasteful," broadcasted my supposed failures to anyone who would listen. Later, when a coveted position opened up at the local State Bureau, my mother moved heaven and earth to pave the way for my sister. But the "Golden Child" was rejected; her credit score was a graveyard of defaults and red flags. My mother snapped. In her descent into madness, she pushed me from the thirtieth floor. I remember the wind screaming in my ears before the world went black. Not this time. This time, the debt stays exactly where it belongs. 1 Smack. The phone hit the bridge of my nose with a sickening thud. The screen was a spiderweb of cracks. Warm blood immediately began to leak into my mouth, tasting of salt and iron. "Nancy! Look at what you've done!" My mother, Beatrice, shrieked. The sound was a jagged blade against my eardrums, leaving my head ringing. I cupped my aching nose, my gaze falling to the phone on the linoleum floor. The screen was flooded with threatening texts. MELANIE, your account ending in 8888 is 15 days past due. Balance: $35,600. Pay by 6 PM or we contact your emergency references! My younger sister, Melanie, cowered behind Beatrice, clutching the hem of her cardigan. Her eyes were rimmed with red, tears spilling down her cheeks like perfectly timed props. "Mom, she told me she just wanted a designer bag," Melanie sobbed. "She said she was afraid you’d be mad, so she used my ID to take out the loans. I didn't know she kept borrowing. Now these people call me every hour, screaming at me. I’m too scared to go to work." It was a carbon copy of the past. The same trembling lip, the same practiced helplessness. In my last life, I had looked at that face and felt a misguided sense of sisterly duty. I thought family meant carrying each other's crosses. I was wrong. I became the scapegoat, the pariah of the neighborhood, while Melanie wore her designer dresses and expensive makeup, funded by the very debt I was killing myself to pay. It wasn't until her background check for the government job came back "denied" that Beatrice’s facade of love turned into homicidal rage. The ghost of that thirty-story fall still whistled in my ears. I wiped the blood from my lip with the back of my hand and looked at them—really looked at them. "Get on your knees!" Beatrice barked, her finger trembling as she pointed at the floor. "Your sister won't even buy a Starbucks latte to save money, and you’re out here stealing her identity for some overpriced leather? You will apologize to her right now, or so help me—" I let out a sharp, dry laugh. "Why should I get on my knees?" The room went silent. Beatrice blinked, stunned. I was usually the quiet one, the one who took the hits to keep the peace. "Does this debt have even a cent to do with me?" I asked, my voice cold as a winter morning. Melanie’s face twisted. Her crying spiked an octave. "Nancy! How can you say that? Do you think I did this? I don’t even know what those apps are called! You stole my social security card last month! You said it was for a gym membership!" She buried her face in Beatrice’s shoulder, playing the victim with Oscar-winning precision. Beatrice’s face turned a violent shade of purple. She swung her hand, a wide, frantic arc aimed at my cheek. "You ungrateful little bitch!" I didn't flinch. I didn't even blink. I caught her wrist mid-air with a grip that surprised even me. "What are you doing?" Beatrice gasped. "You’re going to hit your mother now?" I shoved her hand away and reached for my own phone. I dialed 911 without a second of hesitation. "Yes, I’d like to report a crime," I said clearly into the receiver. "Identity theft and large-scale financial fraud. Someone has taken out tens of thousands in predatory loans using a stolen ID." Melanie went pale. She hadn't expected me to actually call the authorities. Usually, the mere threat of a scene was enough to make me fold. She scrambled toward me, trying to snatch the phone. Beatrice stood frozen. "Nancy, have you lost your mind? You don't bring the police into family business! Think of the scandal!" I turned to her, a predatory smile touching my lips. "If the money isn't mine, then we have nothing to fear from an investigation. Let the detectives track the digital trail. Let’s see exactly whose bank account that thirty thousand dollars landed in. Let’s see who spent it." Melanie began to shake. She slumped against the sofa, her eyes darting around the room, the tears forgotten in the face of sheer, cold terror. 2 Beatrice was vibrating with rage. She stabbed a finger toward my face. "You’re a monster, Nancy! A cold-blooded animal! You want to ruin your sister's life? Is that it? You’re just jealous of her!" I didn't answer. I just watched her spiral. In her world, Melanie’s reputation was a holy relic, and my integrity was something to be stepped on. Beatrice lunged for the utility closet and pulled out a heavy length of nylon rope she used for gardening. Before I could process the insanity of it, she and Melanie tackled me. It wasn't a fair fight—two against one. They shoved me into the windowless pantry, the air thick with the smell of stale flour and dust. "You won't apologize?" Beatrice hissed through the door. "Fine. You stay in there and reflect. You don't get a drop of water or a bite of food until you agree to fix this." The heavy click of a padlock echoed in the small space. I leaned back against a stack of storage bins, listening to the muffled sounds of the house. Around midnight, I heard the lock rattle. Melanie slipped inside, holding a spare key and a single sheet of paper. Without Beatrice watching, she dropped the "sweet girl" act. Her face was a mask of pure malice. "Listen to me, you pathetic loser," she whispered, her voice a venomous crawl. "I know where you hide your emergency cash. That little tin box under your bed? The money you’ve been slaving away for at the tutoring center? If you don't take the fall for this, I’ll burn every cent of it tomorrow. Then I'll tell Mom you’ve been 'working' as an escort." My fists clenched. That money represented two years of double shifts and skipped meals. It was my ticket out of this house. I stared at her until she shifted uncomfortably. "What are you looking at? Sign the confession." "Fine," I whispered, letting my head hang, forcing a sob to break my voice. "I’ll sign. Just... don't touch my money. It’s all I have." Melanie smirked, the triumph radiant on her face. "See? Was that so hard? You always were the weak one." She slapped a handwritten note onto my lap. I, Nancy, admit to using Melanie’s identity for all recent loans and accept full responsibility for the debt. I took the pen. Using my left hand—the hand I never use for writing—I scrawled "Nancy" in a shaky, distorted script. Melanie didn't notice the detail. She snatched the paper, blew on the ink, and reached into my coat pocket to steal my ID for good measure. "Smart move. Now, when you get your paycheck next month, make sure it goes straight to me. I have bills to pay." The door locked again. The footsteps faded. I wiped my face dry, the "tears" vanishing instantly. 3 Three days later, the front door nearly came off its hinges. THUD. THUD. THUD. The whole house shuddered. Five men, built like brick walls and covered in ink, forced their way into the living room. The leader, a man with a jagged scar across his eyebrow, swung a baseball bat into the hallway mirror. Glass rained down like diamonds. "MELANIE! Get out here!" he roared. "Thirty grand by tonight, or I start taking fingers!" Beatrice came sprinting out of her bedroom, losing a slipper in the process. "Gentlemen, please! We can talk about this!" She saw the bat and immediately bolted for the pantry. She fumbled with the key, ripped the door open, and grabbed me by the collar, throwing me into the living room as a human shield. "It’s her! She’s the one who took the money!" Beatrice screamed, her face a contorted mask of fear. "My eldest daughter! She did it all! We have nothing to do with this!" Just like before. She didn't hesitate to throw me to the wolves. The leader grabbed me by the hair, a sharp pain blooming in my scalp. He pulled my head back, glaring into my eyes. "You Melanie?" I looked back at him, my expression dead. "My name is Nancy. Melanie is the one hiding behind the sofa." I ignored the tugging on my hair and spoke calmly. "If you’re here for a debt, you should probably verify the identity. You don't want to waste your time on someone who doesn't have the money. Check the phone number on the file. Check the facial recognition." The man narrowed his eyes. "You think I’m playing games?" He pulled out a rugged tablet, swiping through a portal. "Real-ID verification: Melanie. Registered phone number ends in 8888." Beatrice froze. That phone number—the "lucky" number she’d spent a thousand dollars to get for Melanie's graduation—was unmistakable. The monthly bill alone was a fortune. Melanie finally peeked out from behind the couch, her voice a shrill, desperate whine. "It was my sister! She stole my phone! She did it while I was sleeping!" I looked at the enforcer. "Sir, those apps require 'liveness' checks for withdrawals. You have to blink, smile, and turn your head for the camera. How did I manage to do that with her face while she was sleeping?" The man had been in this business a long time. He knew a lie when he heard one. He let go of my hair and stepped toward Melanie. "You think I’m an idiot?" CRACK. He delivered a backhand that sent Melanie spinning. She hit the floor hard, her face swelling instantly. Blood and snot smeared across her porcelain skin. "Mom! Help me!" she shrieked. Beatrice went feral. She lunged at the man, trying to claw at his eyes. "You leave my daughter alone! I’ll kill you!" The man didn't even flinch. He planted a boot in Beatrice’s stomach, sending her skidding across the floor until she slammed into the coffee table. The living room was filled with the discordant music of their wailing. 4 The man put his boot on Beatrice’s back, tapping his bat against the floor. "Enough with the soap opera," he growled. "Thirty thousand, principal and interest. Or I pack you both into a van and ship you to a basement in Tijuana to work off the balance." Melanie was hyperventilating in the corner. Suddenly, she remembered the paper. She fumbled in her pocket and held it up like a holy shield. "Wait! Look at this! It’s a signed confession! My sister admitted it! It’s all hers!" The man took the paper, squinted at it, and then looked at me. Beatrice, pinned to the floor, found her second wind. "Nancy! You monster! Give them the money! Do you want us all to die?" I actually laughed. "That’s a forgery." I pointed to the signature. "Look at the strokes. That was written with a left hand by a right-handed person. It’s a mirror-image signature. Legally, it’s a 'distressed signature,' usually used to indicate a document signed under duress. It’s worthless in any court—and it’s worthless here." Melanie’s eyes went wide. She let out a guttural scream and tried to lung at me, her fingers hooked like claws. The man caught her with a kick to the ribs before she could get close. "I’m bored," he said, pulling a different tablet from his vest. He opened the lender's internal file. "I don't need a piece of paper. The platform requires a high-res photo of the borrower holding their ID. Let’s see who’s in the picture." He tapped the screen. The blue light illuminated the dim room. Beatrice struggled up, hopeful, thinking this would finally prove her favorite daughter’s innocence. "Yes! Look at the photo! It’ll be Nancy!" But as her eyes fell on the screen, the air left her lungs.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "431673", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel