Chapter 3

Mom lay on the floor, blood masking her face.

Even then, a thin, cold smile still stayed on her lips.

“I’m not a daughter of this family,” she rasped. “But none of you deserve to be my family, either.”

Grandfather's face went dark with rage. His chest heaved as he raised his hand.

I didn't think. I threw my weight over Mom’s spine, my arms locking around her neck.

Slap!

The blow didn't hit her. It landed on the side of my face with a dull, wet crack.

A sharp, copper taste flooded my tongue. My jaw felt like it would snap.

I didn't cry. I screamed into the stagnant air of the basement.

“Stop hitting her! She drank the antifreeze! She’s dying!”

Silence dropped over the basement. The only sound was the heavy drip of water from a pipe.

Dad’s face turned the color of ash. He stepped toward us.

“Iris?” His voice was a jagged whisper. “What did you say? Your mom took... what?”

I scrambled across the blood, my knees scraping against the floorboards.

My fingers shook as I finally picked up the green bottle. I held it out to him.

“She drank it. Right before you broke down the door. It’s Antifreeze!”

Dad reached out, his long fingers trembling.

But before he could touch the plastic, Vivian moved.

She snatched the bottle from the air. Her thumb moved across the label in a quick, practiced scrape.

My eyes widened. I saw her nail dig into the ink, peeling back the letters.

"You—"

Before I finished it, she handed it back to Dad with a long, theatrical sigh.

“Antifreeze? Julian, look.” She pointed to the mangled label. “The letters are all wrong. It says ‘A-N-T.’ "

"It’s just bug spray. Joanna, if you wanted to hurt us, you should have used the real thing. Don't force Iris to lie for your theater.”

I stared at the bottle in Dad’s hand. The word was gone, replaced by a smear of gray plastic.

It looked like a cheap prop.

Dad’s jaw tightened.

Uncle Lucas grabbed the bottle and hurled it at Mom’s head.

Thud.

The plastic struck her temple.

Her head lurched to the side, hitting the floor hard. A fresh line of red opened near her eye.

“Are you insane, Joanna?”

Uncle Lucas’ voice was thick with disgust. “You think a fake bottle and a lying brat will make us pity you? You’re pathetic.”

Dad let out a short, sharp laugh.

“To lie about your own death just for a moment of attention,” Dad said. “You’re even lower than I thought.”

He didn't see Mom's fingers twitching against the floor.

Beside her was the bottle of antifreeze.

I remembered the day three years ago when she first bought that bottle. The smell of the basement was the same then.

A debt collector had pinned me to the wall, his hand crushing my collarbone.

“If you die, the debt goes to the girl,” the man had snarled.

Mom had dropped the cap. She had crawled to them, her forehead touching the mud on their boots.

“I won’t die. I’ll do anything. Just don’t touch my daughter.”

She had endured three years of hell for me. And now, the light in her eyes was flickering out because of them.

I stumbled toward Dad. My legs felt like lead, but I forced them to move.

I dropped to my knees in front of his polished leather shoes.

Thud.

I slammed my forehead into the concrete.

The impact sent a shockwave through my skull.

I did it again.

Thud.

Warm liquid began to drip down my nose, mixing with the grit on the floor.

“Dad, Mom’s in pain! Please, just look at her! Save her!”

Dad just stepped back.

He looked down at me, his eyes flat and cold, as if he were looking at a stain on his carpet.

“Look at her, Joanna. Look at what you’ve turned our daughter into. A liar. A beggar.”

“No!” I shrieked, my voice breaking.

"Stop..."

That moment, Mom let out a soft, wet sound.

She reached out a trembling hand, her fingers brushing the dust near my knees.

“Iris... stop. Don’t beg them. I’m... fine.”

She tried to push herself up. Her elbows gave way.

The next second, she rolled onto the cold concrete.

A low, guttural moan tore from her throat—a sound of raw, physical agony that cut right through me.

"Mom!"