Chapter 4

Everyone else was still caught up in the noise and laughter. I was the only one who noticed the sudden, razor-sharp look that crossed the new housekeeper's face.

All at once, it hit me. Wasn't this the very woman who had killed me?

I recognized the mole on her neck. I'd never forget it. That night, she'd covered herself head to toe, but when she bent over me in a frenzy, hacking my body apart, her neck had briefly been exposed for just a moment.

I cried out and ran to Dad, trying to grab his arm. "Dad, run! She's here for revenge!"

But my hand passed straight through him. He kept right on eating his lunch, oblivious, a happy smile spread across his face.

I nearly broke down. I'd almost forgotten I was only a soul now. Even with my own killer standing right in front of me, there was nothing I could do about it.

But I couldn't make sense of it. When had Dad caused this woman’s son to die?

While I was still racking my brain over it, someone burst into the station, shouting. "We've confirmed the victim's identity!"

The officer's eyes found Dad, and his expression shifted, suddenly full of pity.

My heart leaped into my throat. If Dad found out the body was mine, what would he even do?

Would he feel satisfied? Or would some small part of him actually grieve?

Everyone crowded around. Dad was just about to stand when Angeline suddenly clutched her stomach, her face draining of color like she was in real agony, and grabbed hold of his sleeve.

"Dad, my stomach hurts. Please, take me to the hospital?"

Dad froze mid-step, then, ignoring Frank's shouts after him, scooped Angeline up and ran out with her.

I was left standing there alone, watching my own name sit right there on the lab report for everyone to see. The irony of it was almost funny.

Of course. Angeline would always matter more than I did. He'd been one step away from finding out that body belonged to me.

It had happened this way more times than I could count. Angeline and I would both come down with fevers together. I'd be delirious, barely conscious, while Angeline was still running around fine, and Dad would take her to the hospital first every single time.

One time, weak and shaking, I'd dragged myself up and searched every cabinet in the house without finding a single fever tablet. In the end, I'd walked to the pharmacy myself, nearly passing out on the way there more than once. Too afraid of being a burden to Dad, I'd gritted my teeth and forced myself back home.

But just a few steps from my bedroom door, my strength gave out and I collapsed.

When Dad got home and found me passed out on the floor, he didn't check if I was alright. He kicked me.

His voice, thick with contempt, had rung in my ears. "It's just a fever. It's not going to kill you. One shot and Angeline was fine. Now you've learned how to play the pity card too?"

I'd come to, my eyelids like lead, and still I'd forced myself up, stumbling, and managed a smile so strained it barely qualified as one. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm fine, really."

I was only putting on a brave face, terrified that if he saw me as dead weight, he'd cast me off for good.

Dad had scoffed. "Knew you were faking it. Get back to your room. Stop making a scene out here."

What he never knew was that my fever had spiked past 39 degrees Celsius that night. If not for that single fever pill, I probably wouldn't have made it.

Meanwhile, my father had run himself ragged for Angeline. He'd poured her hot water, gone out for medicine, even cooked for her with his own two hands.

This was the same man who liked to say a man's place was carrying a gun to protect his country, not tucked away in some kitchen corner. And yet, for her, he'd stand at that stove himself.

Sometimes I genuinely envied Angeline. She got every ounce of Dad's love without lifting a finger for it, while in his eyes, I'd always be nothing but a murderer.

Even now that I was dead, he wouldn't spare me so much as a moment.