The Truth Behind My Brother’s Death Chapter 2

My father’s face darkened, twisting into a thunderous mask.

He reached down and pinched my cheek, his voice a low growl. "Daddy believes you."

With that, he spun around and stormed towards the house, moving not like a man about to catch a cheater, but like a soldier heading into battle.

Charlotte's face went white. She tried to grab him but missed, stamping her foot in desperation. "Honey! The most important thing right now is getting our son to the hospital!"

But my father could tolerate many things, but not betrayal. Not this.

His son’s legs were nothing compared to his pride.

He didn't even look back as he charged upstairs.

Of course, he found nothing. The man was long gone. But the cloying scent of a strange men's cologne hung heavy in the air, a scent so thick it was suffocating.

Charlotte, ever the actress, burst into fresh tears. She fumbled in her purse and pulled out an exquisitely packaged bottle of men's cologne, her voice choked with sobs. "Honey, this was a gift for you. I wanted it to be a surprise…"

It was an excuse a ghost wouldn't believe.

But my father had no proof.

An ambulance wailed in the distance, arriving to take Michael away. Before he got in, my father stared hard at Charlotte, hissing through his teeth, "If I find out some bastard was the reason my son's legs were broken, I'll make sure his entire family pays."

I was frantic but powerless. I knew Charlotte was cunning, that she had prepared for this. I couldn't beat her in one move; I'd have to find another chance.

At the hospital, Michael wouldn't stop crying from the pain.

I immediately rushed to his bedside, grabbing his small hand. "Don't cry, Michael," I choked out. "Big sister is here."

He must have been dazed from the fall, or maybe my false kindness over the years had actually worked. He instinctively burrowed into my side. "Lily saved me," he mumbled.

My father, standing nearby, praised me for being so mature.

But then his gaze fell on Michael’s cast-covered legs, and he sighed heavily. "Thank God," he muttered, "it wasn't worse."

With no proof, the mystery of the open gate remained just that. My father could only eye Charlotte with suspicion, while she played the part of the devoted, gentle wife to perfection, insisting the old gate latch had simply given way.

And so, the matter was quietly dropped.

Back home, Charlotte's kindness towards me became almost suffocating. She cooked my favorite meals, bought me beautiful new dresses, and even tucked me in at night. She was so tender, you'd think I was her real daughter.

My father saw all of this, and his suspicions began to fade. He probably figured that even if a woman had strayed, she’d come back to her senses for the sake of her child and her family.

But I knew better. The nicer she was, the more it proved her guilt. She was desperately trying to wash the filth off herself so she could dump it all back onto me.

I was waiting. Waiting for the fox to show its tail.

But for all my planning, all my caution, I had underestimated her venom.

One Saturday morning, Charlotte sent me upstairs to my room to do my homework. She then wheeled a sleeping Michael out onto the second-floor balcony to get some sun.

I looked up from my workbook, a knot of dread tightening in my stomach.

And then it happened.

Just as my father pushed open the front door, a loud crash, followed by Charlotte’s bloodcurdling scream, echoed from the stairwell.

"Aaaah! Lily! How could you push your brother!"

My father, just stepping inside, froze. He looked up and saw me, standing in the second-floor hallway. And below, at the bottom of the stairs, Michael lay tangled in his overturned wheelchair.