Chapter 3

The snowstorm finally stopped on Christmas morning. Sunlight fell on the roof of the villa, making everything appear blinding white.

Jasmine brought out a steaming hot breakfast of warm soup and caviar on toast, setting it on the dining table.

Mom barely ate half her toast when she set it down and said, "That should be enough, Greg. It's Christmas today. Let's not push Carol too hard."

Dad finished the last of his soup and nodded.

"We ignored her all night. It's now time."

After a short pause like he was weighing his options, he said, "We'll give her a way out."

Then, they began putting on their "disguise" again. Mom changed into a worn-out jacket and deliberately left her hair unbrushed to look more haggard. Meanwhile, Dad changed into a work jacket with worn-out cuffs and mud-caked canvas shoes.

They stood in front of the mirror in the entryway for a few seconds, repeatedly practising their frowning and sighing.

"Let's go."

"Let's go see that brat."

The heater in the villa was still humming as the door closed behind them.

I floated after them, watching their masterful performance as a bitter feeling welled up inside me.

Anyone would have thought that they were a poor and desperate couple who were driven to such a situation by their own child—if they didn't see the Porsche keys in Dad's pocket.

They didn't have to walk far to find me. After all, I had died on a park bench that was less than two blocks away from home.

I looked like a pile of snow on the bench from afar. I kind of also looked like trash that someone else had left behind and abandoned.

However, I was very sure that it was me.

Dad first saw the pair of old running shoes on my feet that were sticking out from under the snow pile. Most of the fabric had worn off, and the laces were absolutely filthy. He'd bought them for 30 bucks at the flea market last year for me and even said that it was too expensive.

When he saw that I wasn't moving, Dad stopped in his tracks.

He'd imagined that I would be crying and wailing as I ran up to him and apologized for my wrongdoings, but that didn't happen. He frowned extremely hard and yelled at me in a suppressed, angry voice.

"Look at her! She's even learned to play dead just to make us give her more money!"

Mom frowned as well.

"She's getting more and more sly by the day. How dare she try to use this tactic on us! What a good thing that we're dressed just as disheveled as she is. If not, anyone would think that we'd been abusing her after all."

Some people who'd come out for morning walks began pointing their fingers in my direction, whispering among each other.

"Why isn't that person moving? Has she frozen to death?"

Dad's face turned bright red when he heard the passersby talking about me. He rushed up to the bench and began yelling at me from five feet away.

"Carolyn Swanson! Stop playing dead and get up now! It's Christmas morning! Stop being such a killjoy!"

The white figure on the bench didn't budge at all. There wasn't even any vapor escaping from my nose or mouth. Yet, Dad still thought that I was ignoring him, and the anger immediately rushed to his head.

"Fine. You're not afraid of anything, are you? Playing tricks on us, are you?"

He marched over the pile of snow and yanked me up by the collar of my worn-out shirt.

"Get up!"

However, the "me" he just yanked up didn't wake with a fright or cry out in pain. Instead, my body was rock solid, frozen in the exact curled-up position from last night.

Dad ended up dragging me down to the ground. My frozen body fell to the ground with a muffled thud. That wasn't the sound of flesh against the ice. It was frozen meat against the icy ground.

My wool beanie fell off, revealing my completely blue face underneath that was heavily dusted with white snow. My eyes were still wide open, and my dull, grey eyes were staring out ahead unblinkingly.

I had been staring at the old payphone booth.

Dad's arm froze in mid-air. The curse word he was about to yell at me caught in his throat, and he made a gurgling sound.

Mom came over with the shopping bag in her hands, prepared to act magnanimous with me.

"Alright, Greg, Carol already knows that she was wrong—"

Her gaze then fell on my pale face in the snow.

The shopping bag fell to the ground with a soft thud. The bright red down jacket fell onto the pristine white snow like a glaring pool of blood.