Chapter 1: The Room That Was Never Hers
“Your sister needs a bigger bedroom, Emily. You can sleep in the garage.””
My stepmother said it while dragging my mattress across the hallway, as casually as if she were asking me to take out the trash.
Behind her, my stepsister, Brittany, laughed as she carried three pink makeup cases into the room where I had slept since I was six.
I stood barefoot on the hardwood floor, clutching the sleeves of my sweatshirt.
“Vanessa, please,” I whispered.
“That's my room.””
Vanessa stopped dragging the mattress and looked over her shoulder.
“Excuse me?””
I swallowed hard.
“Dad said I could keep it. It's Mom's room. He promised he wouldn't change anything.””
For a moment, the hallway went quiet.
Then Vanessa laughed.
“Your mother has been dead for five years. You can't keep an entire bedroom as a shrine forever.””
Brittany appeared in the doorway wearing one of my mother's old silk robes. It was pale blue, embroidered with tiny flowers along the cuffs. I'd kept it folded in the back of my closet because it still smelled faintly of the lavender detergent Mom used.
Now Brittany held the sleeves out like she was modeling a costume.
“Mom, look! Can I keep this?””
My stomach tightened.
“Take it off. That's my mother's.””
Brittany rolled her eyes.
“Everything is your mother's with you.””
“Please put it back.””
Vanessa released the mattress.
It hit the floor with a heavy thud.
“Don't you dare speak to Brittany like that in my house.””
I stared at her.
Her house.
My father, Michael Carter, had bought this house with my mother twelve years earlier. He'd painted the nursery himself, built the bookshelves in the living room, and planted the magnolia tree in the backyard because Mom said every Southern home needed one.
After Mom died, Dad kept everything almost exactly as she'd left it.
Then he married Vanessa two years later.
First, Mom's photographs disappeared from the mantel.
Then her favorite yellow curtains were replaced.
Her china cabinet was emptied, and Vanessa filled it with expensive decorations nobody was allowed to touch.
Now she wanted the bedroom, too.
“Dad said I could stay in my room,” I protested.
Vanessa's expression hardened.
“Your father isn't here, is he?””
Dad was working in Dallas that week, overseeing a construction project. He'd called me the previous night and promised he'd be home Sunday afternoon.
Today was Thursday.
Vanessa knew exactly how long she had.
“Here's what's happening,” she announced.
“Brittany gets your bedroom. You sleep in the garage until your father returns.””
Brittany tossed another box onto my bed.
“Finally. I can have a proper dressing area.””
“You already have a walk-in closet,” I said.
“And I need more space.””
Vanessa stepped closer. Her perfume made my stomach turn.
“If you complain to your father, I'll tell him you've been stealing money, disrespecting me, and refusing to follow household rules.””
“I haven't stolen anything!””
“Would he believe you or his wife?””
I had no answer.
The garage smelled of gasoline, damp cardboard, and laundry detergent. Vanessa shoved my mattress beside the washing machine and pointed toward a plastic storage bin.
“You can use that old blanket.””
“What about a pillow?””
“Emily, you're sixteen. I'm sure you'll survive.””
I followed her toward the door.
“Can I at least call Dad?””
Vanessa held out her hand.
“Your phone.””
“What?””
“Give it to me.””
“Why?””
“Because you clearly can't be trusted to behave like a member of this family.””
“Dad bought it for me.””
“And I'm the adult responsible for you while he's gone.””
When I hesitated, she snatched it from my hand.
“Your father has enough problems without your drama.””
Then she closed the interior door.
The lock clicked.
That evening, I heard laughter from the kitchen.
Brittany was discussing paint colors and new furniture. Vanessa promised to order a velvet headboard and matching bedside lamps.
They were decorating my mother's room.
I pulled the old blanket around my shoulders and lay down.
At sixteen, I'd learned that grief made adults uncomfortable. I knew not to cry at dinner, not to mention Mom too often, and not to ask why Dad sometimes sat alone in the backyard long after dark.
But I hadn't understood that someone could use my grief against me.
Just before midnight, the interior door opened.
Vanessa stood there holding a bottle of water.
“Here.””
She placed it beside the washing machine.
“Vanessa, please. I'm freezing.””
She looked at me without moving.
“Maybe you'll learn to appreciate what this family gives you.””
Then she shut the door.
The lock clicked again.
I wrapped the blanket around my head and tried to sleep.
I didn't know that Vanessa had made one mistake.
She hadn't just taken my phone.
May you like
She'd taken the phone that contained the only remaining access to my mother's old family account.
And somewhere inside that account was a message Dad had been too afraid to open for five years.
