Chapter 4

That night, Betty came down with a low fever and started murmuring in her sleep.

"Zoey, don't hate me. I just want to live. Mom and Dad are getting old. I can't let them bury their own child. That would be the worst kind of disrespect."

Her face had gone pale, sweat beading on her forehead, but the words never stopped coming.

Mom, furious, flung the towel in her hand to the floor and stomped on it again and again, as if the crumpled cloth were me, as if she were already taking revenge on my sister's behalf.

I took a step back. Mom planted her hands on her hips and let loose a stream of curses.

"That tramp. Even now, at a time like this, she's throwing a tantrum instead of coming to check on Betty, making her worry herself sick. I regret ever giving birth to something like her. What rotten luck for this family. If anything happens to Betty, I'll pay it back on her tenfold."

Mom was convinced Betty had been wronged, and she was determined to fight for her.

On the bed, Betty lay with her eyes shut, the corner of her mouth curling faintly, her lashes trembling.

It was all an act, every bit of it, aimed at blackening my name and turning our parents' hatred of me even deeper.

That was the only way they'd never feel guilty: the only way they could go on loving a daughter as vicious as her without end.

Pain radiated through my skull, and I answered back with everything I had left.

"I'm already dead. You don't need to torture me anymore, and you don't need to regret anything either."

No one heard me. Dad pulled out his phone and dialed a number. I caught sight of it and realized it was mine.

His purpose was simple: he wanted to curse me out, to vent on Betty's behalf.

But he was bound to be disappointed this time, because I was dead, and dead people don't answer their phones.

Watching call after call, message after message, vanish without an answer, Dad slammed his phone down in frustration.

"Where is that tramp hiding now? I'd like to see what right she has to bully Betty. If it weren't for Betty, she never would have had the chance to exist in this world at all. Not knowing gratitude is one thing, but being this vicious on top of it? She really was born rotten."

Everyone kept reminding me that I only existed because of Betty, but if I'd had any choice in the matter, I would rather have been born a pig, a snake, anything at all, than their daughter, bullied and blamed for nothing.

Mom was furious too, and the two of them fell into step together, searching the hospital for me once they'd confirmed Betty was fine.

Since it was the hospital where Mom worked, finding me wasn't hard.

They followed a nurse who led the way, walking farther and farther into the building's depths, until they reached the cold, sterile morgue.

Mom's temper snapped.

"I'm looking for Zoey Chase. Why did you bring me here? Is this some trick of hers? Just because she's jealous of Betty, is she really pulling some cheap stunt like this? Tell her to get out here right now."

The nurse's whole body trembled. When she looked at Mom, there was disappointment in her eyes.

"Dr. Piper, Zoey is dead. She died in agony, alone, because you took every last member of the medical staff with you. There was no one left to look after her.

"As a doctor yourself, you understand better than anyone that she was never fit to donate marrow. Her body couldn't have survived it."

Mom stood there stunned by the outburst for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"How much is Zoey paying you to put on this little show? It's almost convincing. It's just a bone marrow donation. How could anyone possibly die from that?"

Mom was laughing so hard tears formed in her eyes. The nurse simply pushed the door open and spoke, her voice flat and cold.

"See for yourself, then."

It took only one step through that door for Mom to stumble, and it took her a long moment before she finally made it to my body.

She was afraid. I couldn't understand what she had to be afraid of.

She'd wanted me dead, hadn't she? She should have been thrilled to see my corpse this soon, ready for the crematorium.

Dad was even worse off. He covered his face, unwilling to lift the white sheet, until the nurse finally did it herself.

The sheet fluttered aside, revealing my ashen, gray-blue face and my eyes, still open, refusing to close even in death.