My parents’ adopted daughter—their perfect, darling girl—drove drunk and killed a man. She cried, shaking, telling everyone how terrified she was. My brother, without a single second of hesitation, pushed me out to take the fall. My fiancé, a high-profile defense attorney, even committed perjury to seal my fate, pointing his finger at me in open court. Three years of living hell followed. In that prison, I was tormented daily. They broke me, physically and mentally, even shattering my right hand. The constant, agonizing abuse eventually manifested as terminal stomach cancer. "Inmate thirty-three, keep your head down out there. Don't let me see you back here." When I was released, I didn't go back to Boston. Instead, I changed my name, fled to a quiet, foggy coastal town in Maine, and took a job as a cemetery caretaker. I even bought myself a burial plot. Plot thirty-three. A quiet coincidence, nothing more. Until one dreary April morning, under a steady drizzle, a figure under a black umbrella stopped in front of my desk. "The owner of Plot Thirty-Three... does anyone ever come to visit her?" My left hand, holding the registration pen, froze. … Hearing that voice again made me feel as if I were looking back across a lifetime. The rain continued to tap against the windowpane. Without looking up, I kept my voice entirely flat. "She has no family." James froze. Then, he let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh. "Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for you? Wren, do you even have a heart?" I finally looked up. After all these years, he was still immaculate in his custom-tailored coat, still the golden boy of the Boston press. And me? I was a ghost of myself, hollowed out by the sickness. I watched his eyes grow red, but I felt only a cold amusement. "What did Clara do this time?" I asked. "Whose crime do you need me to pay for now?" "Wren!" A fleeting, ugly guilt flickered in James's eyes. "Clara's health is fragile. You did a few years for her—is that really something you can't get over?" His words were just as sharp and dismissive as they had been three years ago, when he practically shoved me into the back of a police cruiser. 'Clara is too delicate for prison, Wren. You're her sister—is it really that hard to do this for her?' I pulled my lips into a dry mimicry of a smile. "No. I can't get over it." He stared at me, completely stunned. "Stop acting out. Come back to Boston with me." He grabbed my wrist, dragging me out of the caretaker's booth. "Let go of me!" I struggled, but my lungs burned, and I couldn't draw enough air to fight him. James stopped. He finally took me in, really looking at the state of my body. "What is wrong with you?!" The panic in his eyes was almost comical. "If you actually care," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady, "then give me back my life. Tell the truth. Clear my name publicly..." "Do you want to destroy Clara's entire life?" he spat back instantly. Of course. Even now, as a celebrated investigative journalist with millions of followers, he wouldn't write the story that mattered. He wouldn't write the truth for his own sister. If he knew my right hand was ruined, he’d probably find a way to justify it. After all, Clara was a jewelry designer too. Every time I won an award before the crash, she’d lock herself in her room and cry until they all blamed me. My numb heart gave a dull, familiar throb. "Then why are you here?" My voice trembled. "Wren, it was just three years. It didn't ruin you," James sighed, exasperated. "I can support you for the rest of your life. It's a hell of a lot better than rotting in a graveyard. Stop being so ungrateful." He forced me into his car. "Where are you staying?" I didn't have the energy to fight him. I whispered the address. The car pulled up to a dilapidated apartment complex on the edge of town. There were no streetlights; the landlord didn't bother. James followed me up the stairs, his pace slowing as the peeling wallpaper and smell of damp took over. Mrs. Higgins, my neighbor, passed by and gave me a warm smile. "Early day, Wren?" Then her eyes drifted to James, scanning his expensive suit. Before I could reply, James grabbed my arm roughly. "You changed your name?" He pressed right over the deep, old aches in my arm, and I gasped from the sharp pain. But he didn't notice. He only tightens his grip. "Who gave you permission to change your name?!" "Hey! Let go of her!" Mrs. Higgins stepped in, pushing him away. The dam broke. I completely lost control. "Does it have anything to do with you?!" I screamed, my voice cracking, raw. "You see how I live now. Just leave me alone. Please. I am begging you!" James's hand hung frozen in the air. "Fine. Fine. I guess we raised an ungrateful snake after all." I didn't breathe until the sound of his heavy footsteps faded down the stairwell. I reached down to help Mrs. Higgins. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Higgins... are you okay?" "I'm fine, dear," she said softly, patting my shoulder. She saw the terror in my eyes, but she didn't pry. She just whispered, "Take care of yourself," and headed inside. Back in my apartment, I collapsed onto the threadbare sofa. My body wouldn't stop shaking. The memories rushed back, suffocating me. “Look at her. Thought you liked driving drunk? Come on, drink the toilet water. What, you don't like it?” “Drink it! Crawl like a dog and maybe we'll believe you didn't kill that guy.” “So what if you're a rich girl? Your own brother left you in here to rot!” In prison, the humiliation was a daily routine. They made me kneel for scraps. They tried to force me to draw jewelry designs for them to sell. When I couldn't, they held me down and snapped my hand. Later, I started throwing up blood. I begged to see James. At first, he came. But then, he started calling me a liar, accusing me of trying to manipulate him. Eventually, he stopped coming altogether, leaving a message through a guard: “Your brother says he has eyes in here. He'll visit when you stop acting.” On the day of my release, I squinted against the blinding sun. I didn't get medical help. I didn't go back to Boston. I just wanted to live out whatever days I had left in quiet obscurity. But why was he back? I stared at the ceiling until dawn, then headed back to the cemetery. After submitting my resignation, I sat on a stone bench, clutching the folded medical diagnosis in my pocket until it was crumpled beyond recognition. Two weeks ago, I had collapsed in the registration booth. When I woke up, the clinic doctor was holding my hand, crying. That was how I found out I had less than a month left. The rain poured harder now. Suddenly, a warm hand wrapped around my wrist, pulling me up roughly. "James said you were hiding here. I didn't believe him." "Disappearing without a word... did you forget we have an engagement?" I looked up into the dark, stormy eyes of Wayne. "Don't you think you're being incredibly selfish?" Selfish? When he and Clara slept in my bed on my birthday, making me the laughingstock of Boston's elite, did he think about being selfish? My eyes dropped to his ring finger. A platinum band. Matching Clara's. Counting the three years I spent behind bars, they’ve been sleeping together for five years. Nausea hit me like a physical blow. I shoved him away, leaning over a trash can, retching violently. Wayne frowned, stepping forward to pat my back, but I flinched away from his touch. He froze. "Are you pregnant with some bastard's kid?" When I didn't answer, his voice hardens. "A guy named Wells?" Slap. I struck his cheek with everything I had left, my body trembling with rage. "You are disgusting, Wayne." I turned to walk away, but he caught up, dragging me toward his sleek sedan and locking the doors. "Let me out!" "James is already at your apartment," Wayne said, steering onto the road. "Aren't you going home?" The words drained the last of my strength. I looked at him, hollowed out. "Is hurting me really that fun for you?" Wayne's brow furrows. "Don't talk like that. Once we're back in Boston, we'll go ahead with the wedding." Then, as if remembering a minor detail, he added, "Though, legally, we won't be married. Clara and I... we already registered." I let out a soft, humorless laugh, turning my face to the window. "I wish you both a long life. May you have many children." The car stopped back at my bleak apartment complex. "Clara came with us. I'm going to the airport to pick her up," Wayne said. I don't reply. I just got out. When I pushed open my door, James was sitting on my sofa, staring blankly at my old jewelry design sketchbook. "You used to live for this," he said, looking up with a confused, hollow expression. "Why... why did you stop designing?" He looked around the peeling walls, his voice suddenly thick. "I won't hold the name change against you. But Wren... how have you been living like this?" For a second, I thought I saw a rim of red around his eyes. I walked over and calmly took the sketchbook from his hands. "You don't have to worry. I will never compete with Clara for a design slot again." "Just let me go. Please." James stood up, grabbing my shoulders, his eyes bloodshot. "You vanished for a year without a single word! Who is hurting whom here?!" "What do you mean you can't design anymore? What happened to your hand?" I pulled away from his grip. "Stop acting, James." My voice was barely a whisper. "When they broke my hand in that cell, the guard called you. I heard the entire conversation." His words from that night had carved themselves into my skull: “A fracture? Forget it. Wren is too arrogant, always showing off her awards in front of Clara. She needs to learn some humility. Send the prison doctor tomorrow.” "You... you knew?" James stammered, his face losing color. "No, the prison doctor told me it was just a minor sprain from a slip... What do you mean they broke it?" "Jamesary." A sweet, soft voice called out from the doorway. Clara stood there, holding a thick folder. She glided in and wrapped her arm around James's. "I personally went and questioned everyone who worked at the facility back then. They all said Wren just sprained her wrist. Nobody laid a finger on her. Look, I have their signed statements right here. Stop worrying so much about her." The doubt in James's eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a complicated, defensive irritation as he looked at me. "Your hand... how did it really happen?" It was always like this. It didn't matter how much I bled. A few sweet words from Clara, and the truth was erased. I tucked my sketchbook away, my heart a flatline. "Please leave." Suddenly, Clara thrust a gleaming smartphone into my face. "Wren! Everyone back home has been so worried about you. Say hi to the stream!" I looked at the screen—the live viewer count was over a hundred thousand. Panic, cold and sharp, paralyzed me. Three years ago, the courtroom was filled with the same flashing lights, the same voyeuristic eyes, believing the lies, screaming for my head... "Get it away! Get it away from me!" I slapped the phone out of her hand, stumbling back until my spine hit the freezing wall, gasping for air. James's face softened with a flicker of genuine alarm. "Wren?!" "Wren, do you really hate me that much? I'll leave..." Clara sniffed, her eyes welling with theatrical tears. "Just leave me alone!" I screamed, drowning her out. "Please! All of you!" My hand was ruined. My career was dead. I was dying. Why won't they just let me die in peace? "Wren, we looked for you for a year. How can you be so cruel?" Clara wept. James's expression hardened into anger again. "Clara has done nothing but worry about you, and this is how you treat her?" He barked more questions at me, but my brain shut down. I pulled my knees to my chest, curling into a ball on the floor, blocking them out. "Please. Just let me go." Finally, the heavy wooden door slammed shut. Silence filled the room. I sat on the cold floor for hours. When my hands stopped shaking, I texted my landlord that I was leaving. Then, I open my browser and scheduled an appointment at an assisted dying clinic in Switzerland. If living was just a slow torture, I’d rather choose my own exit. At 5:00 AM, my phone rang. It was the cemetery office. "Is this Ms. Wells? About Plot Thirty-Three... we've had to transfer it to another buyer. We're moving your reservation to the communal plot on the east ridge." I froze. "I paid for that plot in full a year ago. You have no right to sell it!" The clerk let out a cynical treasure. "The new buyer offered eighty thousand dollars cash. Look, if you want it back, pay us a hundred thousand. You've held that plot for a year. If you had actually died, we wouldn't have sold it. But you're still walking around—it's a waste of prime real estate!" The line went dead. A cold sweat broke across my forehead. I grabbed my coat and hailed a cab. That grave was the only thing I had left. My quiet corner of the earth. When I arrived, the rain was pouring. I saw Clara standing near the edge of Plot 33, directing two workers to haul away the headstone bearing my name. "Get this depressing garbage out of here. Dump it in the communal section!" Blood rushed to my ears. "What are you doing?!" Clara turned, a sickeningly sweet smile on her face as she cradled a small, ornate wooden urn. "Oh, Wren. A feng shui master told me this exact spot would be perfect for Cloud's ashes." Cloud. Her white Samoyed. During my brief three months back with the Abbotts, that dog had bitten me dozens of times. The worst time, it tore a chunk of flesh from my calf. When I cried to James, he just held the dog, telling me, “Dogs have intuition, Wren. Cloud wouldn't bite you without a reason. You must have done something to provoke him.” I stared at Clara, forcing my voice to remain low. "I bought this plot a year ago. Give it back to me." "Oh, please," Clara scoffed, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a vicious whisper. "Wren, whatever I want, I get. I know you're dying. In fact, I made sure those girls in prison took excellent care of you..." A loud ringing filled my ears. My hands clenched. Then, I smiled. A cold, empty smile. "You will burn for this." Slap. I hit her face so hard my palm stung, screaming, "I went to prison for you! Why do you hate me this much?!" Clara shrieked, intentionally dropping the urn. The white ashes scattered into the wet wind. She covered her face, sobbing hysterically. "Wren! You can hit me, but how could you do that to Cloud?!" "Apologize to her." James's voice cut through the rain behind me. My tears finally spilled over, hot and bitter. "I have stage four stomach cancer. I have weeks left to live." "What?!" James gasped. "It's okay, James... I'll just kneel and scoop his ashes back up..." Clara interrupted, pulling a folded sheet of paper from her purse. "Wren, it's bad enough you bought a fake headstone to seek attention, but why must you keep playing these sick games with James?" She handed him the paper. "James, I was so worried about her that I had my people check her medical records. Look... she's perfectly fine." James glanced at the forged document, then turned his eyes on me, filled with disgust. "You lied to get attention in prison, and you're still doing it now. You never change, do you?" He still didn't believe me. The taste of iron welled up in my throat. "No," I whispered. "I never change." Slap. The blow knocked my head to the side. James's hand remained frozen in the air. His eyes suddenly widened, tracing the blood at the corner of my mouth. "Wre... Wren..." "Don't touch me!" I wiped the blood away, staring at the horror on his face and the smug triumph on Clara's. "I hope I never see either of you again." My stomach erupted in sharp, agonizing pain. I turned and stumbled toward the exit, coughing violently into my hand. When I pulled my hand away, it was covered in black, thick blood.
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