Chapter 1
The smell of charcoal and burnt hamburgers clung to the air, thick and sweet with my mom’s famous potato salad. It was our annual Fourth of July cookout, the kind of day where kids screamed with sparklers and uncles argued about baseball.
I should have been happy.
I wasn’t.
Lila’s eyes had been burning holes in my back all afternoon.
My cousin. The girl I’d shared sleepovers with, the one I’d taught to ride a bike. She’d hated me for three months now, ever since I’d gotten the Northwestern pre-med scholarship she’d applied to three times and never even made the waitlist.
I’d tried to talk to her. Tried to say I was sorry, that it didn’t mean I was better. She’d just laughed, sharp and cold, and walked away.
When the sun dipped low and everyone drifted inside for peach pie, I lingered on the back porch. I needed a minute away from the noise, away from Lila’s stares.
I didn’t hear her come up behind me until she spoke.
“You always get every single thing I want.”
Her voice was low, so only I could hear it. I turned, my hand still on the basement stair railing. She was standing too close, her face twisted with a rage I’d never seen before.
“Lila, I—”
I didn’t get to finish.
She shoved me. Hard. Both hands flat against my chest, all her weight behind it.
I stumbled backward. My feet slipped off the top step.
I fell.
My head cracked against the second step. Then the fourth. Then the sixth. Each impact sent white-hot pain shooting through my skull, my arm, my side. I tried to grab the railing, but my fingers slipped. I heard something snap.
The last thing I saw before the dark swallowed me was Lila leaning over the railing.
She was laughing.
I woke up to a beep. Steady, sharp, endless.
My throat felt like I’d swallowed broken glass. My right arm screamed when I tried to move it. My side throbbed so bad I could barely breathe.
I blinked.
I was in a hospital bed. White walls. A heart monitor next to me.
My mom was sitting in a plastic chair by the bed, her face streaked with tears. Her hand was wrapped around mine, her fingers cold.
“Baby,” she whispered. “Oh, thank God.”
I tried to say her name. Nothing came out but a croak.
Then I saw them.
Lila. And her mom, my aunt Karen. Standing by the door, their faces painted with fake concern so thick I could almost smell it.
Karen’s eyes darted to me, then away. Lila stared at her shoes, her shoulders shaking like she was crying. I knew she wasn’t.
The nurse walked in, clipboard in hand.
“Any update on how she fell?” she asked, pen hovering over the paper.
Karen stepped forward, her voice trembling with fake sorrow.
“She tripped over the welcome mat by the basement stairs,” she said. “Poor thing. She’s always been so clumsy.”
Lila nodded fast, her eyes still not meeting mine.
I tried to yell. Tried to say she was lying. All that came out was a gasp of pain.
The nurse patted my arm. “Rest now, honey. We’ll get you sorted.”
She wheeled me down the hall for an MRI a few minutes later. I closed my eyes the whole time. I didn’t want to see the machine. I didn’t want to think about Lila standing in my house, lying to everyone.
When they brought me back, the ER doctor was waiting by my bed.
Dr. Miller. I’d seen his name on the chart. He was young, with dark hair and a jaw that was tight, like he was holding something back.
He looked at my mom, then at Karen and Lila.
“Could you give us a minute?” he asked. “Family only.”
Karen opened her mouth to argue. My mom squeezed my hand, then stood and led them out. The door clicked shut behind them.
Dr. Miller pulled a chair up to the bed. He leaned in, his voice low, so only I could hear.
“Can you tell me what really happened?”
I stared at him. My whole body hurt. I was scared. What if he didn’t believe me? What if he thought I was clumsy, like Karen said?
I lifted my left hand—the only one that didn’t scream when I moved it. I pointed toward the door. Toward where Lila was standing on the other side, laughing at something the receptionist said.
Dr. Miller’s face went pale.
He picked up my scans from the end of the bed. Flipped through them, his fingers moving fast.
“Seventeen fractures,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
My blood ran cold.
“Seventeen?” I croaked.
He nodded. “Skull. Three ribs. Two vertebrae. Your right wrist. Your collarbone. Your left ankle.”
He looked up at me, his eyes dark.
“None of these line up with a fall down a short flight of stairs. Not even close. These are the kind of injuries you get from being thrown. From being hit.”
He didn’t wait for me to answer.
He walked to the exam room door. Reached up, flipped the lock.
Then he pulled his phone out of his white coat.
I heard him dial 911. His voice was steady, but urgent.
“This is Dr. Miller at Northwestern Memorial ER. I have a 19-year-old female patient with 17 fractures consistent with intentional blunt force assault.”
He paused, his eyes on me.
“The suspected perpetrator is a family member currently in our waiting room.”
My hands started shaking so bad the IV line tugged at my skin. Tears burned my eyes. For the first time since I woke up, I let myself cry.
Someone was on my side.
Then the door handle jiggled.
Hard.
Dr. Miller froze. His phone was still pressed to his ear.
The lock clicked.
The door swung open.
Lila stood there. She’d somehow talked a nurse into unlocking it for her. In her hand, she held my cell phone—the one I’d lost at the house, the one with all my scholarship emails on it.
She walked into the room. Slow. Calm.
She looked straight at Dr. Miller. Smiled that same cold smile she’d had at the top of the stairs.
May you like
Then she said three words that made his phone slip out of his hand and clatter on the floor.
“I have her confession.”
