Kneeling To My Living Ghost Sister Chapter 2

A text from Samuel.

“Nancy, the roads are slick. Drive carefully. Don't forget the lilies—they were Izzy’s favorite. It’s been five years, honey. After today, the vigil is over. I’ve asked the cook to make that pot roast you like. See you at home.”

The hypocrisy was a blade, carving out the last of my heart.

I fled. I didn't know where I was going, my feet splashing through puddles, my vision blurred by a cocktail of rain and tears.

My phone lit up again. It wasn't a text this time. It was an anonymous link to a cloud drive.

My thumb hovered over the screen. I clicked.

The photos hit me like a succession of stabs.

The first one was from five years ago. Samuel and Isabelle, wrapped in each other's arms at JFK, glowing with the excitement of a getaway.

My memory fractured. Five years ago, I had been hopelessly in love with Samuel, and I thought he felt the same. Then, overnight, he went cold. He started dating Isabelle. I was devastated but silent.

Then, I found the medical records. Isabelle had forged a history of burn treatments. She had stolen the credit for pulling Samuel out of that warehouse fire ten years ago—a fire where I was the one who nearly died saving him.

I had the evidence. I was on my way to tell him the truth when I was snatched off the street.

When I woke up, I was told the kidnappers had killed Isabelle. Because of me. Because I was the "target."

Now, looking at the photos, the truth was laid bare. The kidnapping was her exit strategy. A way to fake her death, pin the guilt on me, and keep me under Samuel’s thumb as a "living apology" while she lived a secret, pampered life on his dime.

I scrolled through the album.

A kiss under the Eiffel Tower.

Sun-drenched smiles on a yacht in the Mediterranean.

Tangled limbs in a chalet in the Swiss Alps.

Every night I had spent trembling with nightmares and guilt, they were halfway across the world, celebrating my living death.

The last photo was a family portrait. Samuel, Isabelle, and my parents. All of them, gathered around a dinner table, laughing. Radiating happiness.

The realization was a physical nausea.

My parents had spent five years calling me a murderer. They had slapped me, shamed me, and forced me to my knees to "atone" for the loss of their golden daughter.

They knew. They all knew.

They had collectively pushed me into a grave so they could play house with Isabelle.

I hailed a cab, my body moving on autopilot. When I reached my parents' house in the suburbs, my mother opened the door. She took one look at my drenched, bedraggled state and sighed with irritation.

"Look at you. People will think we mistreat you. Get inside."

I stared at her, my voice a jagged shard of glass. "Is Isabelle alive, Mom?"

Her face went bone-white for a split second before hardening into a mask of indignation. "What kind of sick nonsense is that? Your sister has been gone for five years, Nancy. Don't start."

I gritted my teeth. "I saw them. At the cemetery. In the car. I saw her and Samuel."

"So what if you did?" she snapped, the mask finally dropping. Her voice was sharp, devoid of any maternal warmth. "You think you have a right to be upset? If it weren't for your selfishness, Izzy wouldn't have had to hide for five years. You owe her everything!"

I looked at her, truly seeing her for the first time. "I gave her everything. My clothes, my toys, your love—I stepped back so she could have it all. But Samuel? He was the one thing that was mine. He loved me first!"

My mother let out a cold, mocking laugh.