Chapter 2

I lay curled in the middle of the flowers, my eyelids so heavy I could barely lift them.

A bitter coldness spread through me.

All my life, whenever I failed to care for Noah exactly the way Mom wanted, she accused me of trying to hurt him. Then she locked me away.

The room was never really a storage room.

It was my private torture chamber.

Once, Noah came home sweating, so I lowered the thermostat by a single degree. Mom caught me and insisted I was trying to make him sick with a fever. She turned the room into a makeshift freezer and shut me inside for three hours.

Another time, Noah came home hungry after playing outside. I bought him a burger with my own allowance.

Mom accused me of feeding him junk food to ruin his health. She brought home nearly two quarts of filthy, used frying oil and forced me to swallow it in that room.

Every kindness I showed my brother became another calculated attack in her eyes.

The grief was almost as unbearable as the pain of the allergic reaction tearing through my body.

Outside, Noah saw Mrs. Dawson and grabbed on to her like a drowning person reaching for a lifeline.

"Mrs. Dawson, please help Ethan! Mom put over a hundred pounds of flowers in there with him!"

She sucked in a horrified breath and turned to Mom.

"Diane, you know Ethan has a severe pollen allergy!"

Mom sneered.

"What's this? Trying to steal my husband wasn't enough, Claire? Now you're interfering with my family because you want my son, too?"

Mrs. Dawson held back her anger.

"I'm not discussing those ridiculous accusations. Give me the key and open that door. Now."

Something cruel flashed in Mom's eyes.

She pulled out the key and dangled it in front of Mrs. Dawson.

"You want this?"

The instant Mrs. Dawson reached for it, Mom spun around and rushed into the bathroom.

She dropped the key into the toilet and flushed.

Noah lunged after it. Without hesitating, he shoved his hand into the toilet, desperately reaching down the drain.

The rough porcelain scraped his palm raw. Blood spread through the water in thin red streaks.

Mom hurried over and yanked him off the floor. She scolded him furiously, but I could hear the concern underneath.

"What are you doing? You could get an infection!"

Noah stared at her. Tears filled his eyes.

"Mom, when my hand gets hurt, you worry. You don't want me to be in pain.

"So why don't you care that Ethan's hurting in there?"

Her answer came without a second's hesitation.

"Because he deserves it. He spends all his time thinking of ways to hurt you."

The words cut deeper than anything else. Even breathing felt like being torn open.

My lips moved weakly.

"Noah... Mrs. Dawson... don't try to save me anymore..."

No sound escaped.

Mrs. Dawson refused to give up. She tried to get around Mom to search for a spare key, but Mom spread her arms and planted herself in front of the door.

While they argued, Noah quietly pulled out his phone and made a call.

Then he came back to the door and leaned against it.

"Ethan, don't be scared. I called Dad. He's coming home right now.

"He'll get the door open. I know he will.

"I'm sorry. If I hadn't said I wanted takeout..."

His eyes were red, and tears kept dropping to the floor.

I used what little strength remained to reach for him through the door.

I just wanted him to know it was all right.

But my eyelids fell shut, too heavy to open again.

My body felt strangely weightless, as though it were slowly lifting off the ground.

Then Mom's shrill voice cut through the haze.

"Ethan, you want me to let you out? Fine. Call Claire a filthy bitch, loud enough for everyone to hear, and I'll open the door right now."

My thoughts were fading, but one thing was still perfectly clear.

Mrs. Dawson was not a filthy bitch.

When Mom punished me by refusing to feed me, Mrs. Dawson secretly brought me food and pressed it into my hands.

Once, Mom stripped off my clothes and threw me outside because I hadn't gotten Noah a jacket quickly enough. I was shaking with cold when Mrs. Dawson brought me into her home, wrapped me in a thick blanket, and warmed me up.

When I remained silent, Mom grew even angrier. She raised her hand to slap Mrs. Dawson.

A broad, powerful hand caught her wrist before it could land.

Dad was home.

He stared at her, his brows drawn tight.

"Diane, have you lost your mind?"