Chapter 3

At this, my father seemed to remember something. "Right," he added, "the leg bone is missing from the bag containing the victim's remains. Most likely, her leg bone had some distinct congenital deformity, acquired injury, or surgical scar that could have identified her. And with the victim's face destroyed by sulfuric acid, reconstructing her appearance will take time."

He sighed, pulling off his gloves. Beside his hand lay the little lamb pendant, now crusted with dried blood. Clearly, he had forgotten it was the very tool he'd once given me to keep me safe.

After finishing his tasks, my father glanced at his phone. What he saw instantly fueled his anger. He called my mother, his voice tight with fury. "Did you see Wendy's calls? That pathological liar! How dare she make up something like this? She's doing it deliberately, trying to provoke us!"

He was practically shaking. "Doesn't she understand? If she hadn't insisted on Nathan coming home that day, he wouldn't have been murdered by that butcher! And now, she has the gall to claim she's being stalked?"

I hovered near him, stung by his rage-flushed face. Dad, I wasn't lying. I really am dead. How could I use the person responsible for Nathan's death to hurt you? How could I ever do that? I was just so scared and helpless when I sent those messages...

But Dad couldn't see me. Neither could Mom. Her voice crackled through the phone, equally furious. "I saw her messages too. Ignored them. She's just trying to shirk her duty again! That ungrateful brat doesn't care about atonement at all!"

Their accusations washed over me. I covered my ethereal ears, wounded to the core. Just when I thought news of my death might never reach them, my best friend Eva rushed into the police station. She reported me missing, insisting I'd vanished two days ago.

But before the officer could take down the details, my father intercepted them. "Don't bother," he stated coldly. "I'm Wendy's father. She isn't missing. This is just another manipulative stunt to threaten her mother and me..."

The officer, aware of my father's position, shot an uncomfortable glance at Eva before retreating. I watched Eva stumble out of the station, her spirit crushed. Tears streamed down my spectral face. I longed to follow her, to console her, but my presence remained chained to my father's side. I watched him handle fragments of my skull, then followed him home.

The dinner table was, as always, set without regard for me. Fish and Chips, Crab Cakes, boiled shrimp—Nathan's favorites dominated the spread. Mom remembered his tastes perfectly. She never remembered I was deathly allergic to seafood.

Once, Dad had noticed my untouched plate. Hope flickered inside me—maybe, finally, he cared? Gathering courage, I stammered, "Dad... I'm allergic to seafood..."

Mom slammed her fork down. "What evil did I commit to give birth to such an ungrateful wretch?" she shrieked, jabbing a finger in my direction. "I slave over a hot stove making this feast, and now I've wronged you?"

Desperately, I looked to Dad—my childhood hero who always shielded me from Mom's wrath. But the hero merely plopped a huge Crab Cake onto my plate. "Just eat your dinner," he said flatly. "Don't upset your mother."

Their combined stares trapped me. Refusing felt like confessing to another crime. In the end, I choked down the entire Crab Cake. Minutes later, my throat swelled shut. My eyes puffed up, vision blurred. Fire spread under my skin, pain and itch warring through my body. "H-help... me..."

My voice was a broken rasp. Stumbling towards the door, I fumbled for the handle. Locked. Panic surged. I pounded the wood. "P-please... help... Dad... Mom... help... d-don't want to die..."

Faintly, Mom's voice drifted from the living room. "Just an allergy. Won't kill her. Good thing I locked the door. Pathetic melodrama, disgusting! Nathan visited me in a dream last night. Said he wanted that new game console. Hurry up, or the store will close."

No! Mom, Dad, don't leave! Please don't leave me! I don't want to die! HELP ME—

The front door slammed shut. They were gone. I'd been abandoned. Fine then, a voice whispered in my fading thoughts. Maybe dying will hurt less. I curled up in the dark corner to wait.

Downstairs, laughter floated up through the thin floorboards—a father gently teasing his daughter. "You silly thing," a man chuckled warmly, "forgetting you're allergic to peanuts? Could have been the end of you!"

"Sorry, Dad! Didn't mean to. Don't tell Mom, okay?"

"Your mom already knows! She was frantic, paced the whole place. Cooked up a storm of your favorites, too. Just glad you're alright, sweetheart. Parents don't stay mad forever."

I felt like a cockroach skulking in the gutter, jealously coveting light that wasn't mine. Unwelcome. Unworthy. Shame burned through my fading consciousness. I craved it too—parents who remembered my allergies, cooked meals I could eat, showered me with that messy, suffocating love. But I was just the bad child who killed my brother. Undeserving of love.

But Mom, Dad... I don't want to die. I really don't want to die...