Chapter 3: The Trap

I didn't move.

Lin's hand stayed on my shoulder. Warm. Soft. The hand that had held mine through childhood nightmares.

The hand that maybe planted them.

"Dad?" I made my voice blank. Confused. "Our father died. Car crash. You were eight. You told me."

She smiled. Wide. Empty. "Did I?"

Her cane tapped past me. Into the apartment. Three taps to the kitchen. She knew the layout perfectly.

Too perfectly.

"Smells like bleach." She sniffed. "And cigarettes. Dad's brand. Marlboro Gold."

I watched her. She couldn't see me watching. That's what blind people do—they don't turn their heads toward sound.

But her left ear tilted. Just slightly.

*She was tracking me.*

"Sit," she said. "I'll make tea. You look tired."

"I'll do it."

"No." Her cane blocked my path. Metal tip cold against my knee. "Guests don't work. You taught me that."

Guests. Not sisters. Not twins.

I sat.

She moved through the kitchen like water. Kettle filled. Cups found. No fumbling. No searching.

*Ten years blind. Or ten years pretending.*

"Why are you here, Yan?" She didn't turn from the stove.

"Missed you."

"Liar." She smiled. "You hate me. You have since you were fifteen. Since the boy. Since I told you what he really wanted."

Memory flashed. Daniel. Summer camp. Lin's whisper in my ear: *"He asked about your medication first. Your history. He's writing a paper on trauma."*

I stopped eating for three months. When I started again, I'd learned to count calories. To control something.

"He was writing a paper," I said.

"Was he?" She poured water. Steam rose. "Or did I want him gone? Did I want you alone? Dependent?"

Silence.

Then she turned.

Looked directly at me.

"Sugar?" she asked. "Two spoons, right?"

I don't take sugar. Never have.

But Lin does. Two spoons. Exactly.

*She wasn't asking me. She was telling me who I was supposed to be.*

"Yes," I said. "Two spoons."

She laughed. Dropped the spoon. It clattered on tile.

"You're good," she said. "Better than the others. But you always were. My star student."

She walked to the window. Rain on glass. Reflection warped.

"The man in my shower. The one with Dad's soap smell. You let him go."

Not a question.

"I don't know what—"

"Fire escape." She tapped the glass. "Third rung squeaks. I reported it last month. Maintenance hasn't come."

She turned. Sunglasses off.

Gray eyes. Clear. Focused.

*Seeing me.*

"I've been blind for three months, Yan. Cornea transplant. Sixteen years of darkness, and now I see everything." She stepped closer. "Including you. Standing there. Pretending."

I stood. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why pretend? Why the act?"

She touched my face. Traced the scar on my lip. The one she'd refused.

"Because you need me blind," she whispered. "You need me broken. It's the only way you can love me."

The door opened.

We both turned.

A man stood there. Small. Thin. Throat wrapped in bandages.

Wang Tao.

Or his brother.

Or someone else entirely.

"Sorry," he rasped. Voice raw. New. "Wrong apartment."

He looked at Lin. Looked at me.

Smiled.

"Unless," he said, "this is the right one. Unless you're the ones looking for this."

He held up a book. Red leather. Tattered.

The notebook.

Lin moved first. Fast. Not blind at all.

She grabbed the kettle. Threw it.

Scalding water hit his face. He screamed. Dropped the book.

I caught it.

Ran.

Down the hall. Bathroom. Locked the door.

Open the book. Pages filled with dots. Braille.

But on the first page, in ink, in Lin's handwriting:

*"If you're reading this, Yan, you're ready to know. Turn to the last page. Read it out loud. Let him hear."*

Last page. Back cover. More ink. Not braille.

A phone number. And words:

*"He killed your mother. Not you. Never you."*

The bathroom door shattered.

Lin. Cane raised like a weapon.

Behind her, the small man. Face red. Blistering.

But smiling.

"Read it," he said. "Read what she wrote. Then ask her—ask your sister—which mother she means."