Memory of the Wronged

Five days after the fake heiress, Emily Zeller, disappeared, my family locked me inside a private hospital lab.

Cold metal cuffs clamped around my wrists, ankles, and neck. A strange metal helmet sat on my head, with thick black wires, each as wide as a thumb, running from it into a large, humming machine.

They were going to extract my memories.

Terrified, I struggled with everything I had, but it was no use. My parents and my brother, Steve Zeller, stood in front of me. Their faces were cold and emotionless, without a trace of pity.

“I’ll ask you one last time. Where did Emily go?”

My father, Ben Zeller, gripped a letter in his hand. His voice shook with fury, and his eyes were filled with rage. After five days, his patience had completely run out.

Before I could speak, he threw the letter in my face. “Don’t tell me you don’t know. Emily’s letter makes it clear you’re the only one who does. Her disappearance is your fault!”

I had already read that letter.

Every word of it was heavy with guilt. Emily wrote that she wasn’t their real daughter and had no right to keep clinging to the family. After fighting with me for three years, she said she was tired and ready to walk away.

She gave back everything that belonged to me and made sure to say that it wasn’t my fault. She even begged them not to make things hard for me or ask where she went.

But the letter said just enough to make it sound like I had something to do with it. Anyone could see that.

The truth was, I knew nothing.

The day she disappeared, I was shivering in the cold, locked inside the utility room. Steve had punished me the night before because Emily accused me of pushing her down the stairs.

Of course, that was a lie. I hadn’t even touched her.

But she used that lie to leave, saying she didn’t want to fight anymore.

As if all of it were somehow my fault.

That was when my family’s anger finally exploded.

“I don’t know where she went,” I said quietly, lowering my head as the cold metal dug into my wrists and neck.

It was the same answer I had given countless times. I truly didn’t know.

For five days, I had repeated myself again and again, trying to explain that Emily had left on her own.

But my family didn’t believe me. They never did.

They always believed Emily.

“Lily, why do you hate Emily so much? You’ve been back for three years. What has she ever done to you?” my mother, Mary York asked.

Her lips trembled as she spoke. Her pale face was tight with exhaustion. She hadn’t slept properly or eaten in days, and worry for Emily had hollowed her cheeks until she looked years older.

“Have you forgotten the day we brought you home?” she continued, stepping closer, her eyes shining with tears. “Emily made you lemon tea herself. She’s been spoiled since she was little and never even set foot in a kitchen, but she still tried to make your favorite drink and ended up cutting her finger.”

She looked at me with tears in her eyes. “Lily, please tell me where Emily went. Please. I’m going crazy.”

It never took much to make her cry.