Chapter 1Dying Twice To Save Her

When I opened my eyes again, I was back in that kitchen, the air thick with the scent of woodsmoke and old grease. I was back on the morning that ruined everything.

And once again, I chose to run. I ran straight to Granny Ruth’s room, my voice high and thin, a child’s treble spilling the secret of my mother’s planned escape.

In my memories, Mom had spent years whispering the truth to me like a bedtime story. She told me she wasn’t from this place—that she was a "city girl" from a family with a real house and a lawn, stolen and sold into this godforsaken hollow. She promised that one day, she would take me far away.

When I was six, she finally had everything ready. But I sold her out for a slice of thick white bread slathered in honey and the hollow promise of Granny’s affection.

I remember sitting on the porch, stuffing my face with that sweet, sticky bread while my mother’s screams tore through the yard. They had her tied to the old, gnarled oak tree. My father was systematic with the belt.

She had looked up then, her eyes gleaming with a pure, concentrated venom I had never seen before. She didn't look like my mother; she looked like a wounded animal. She called me a heartless little monster.

At the time, I felt only a confused sense of betrayal. I didn't understand why she wanted to leave my father and me. I thought a "family" meant staying, no matter how much it hurt.

Three days later, she took her own life in the tool shed.

And not long after that, on a night when the moon was shielded by clouds, my father—blind drunk and raging at the world—killed me with a blow that was meant to "teach me a lesson."

In those final moments, as my breath rattled and faded, I finally understood. I understood her desperation. I understood her hate. And I understood that the "family" I had protected was really just a cage.

* * *

"You worthless bitch! I gave you a roof, I gave you food, and you try to run?"

My father’s roar vibrated in my chest. Hank was a mountain of a man, his face twisted into something demonic as he swung the leather strap. My mother was suspended from the oak branch, her clothes tattered, blood blooming like dark roses on her skin. She didn’t even have the strength to scream anymore.

Granny Ruth stood on the porch, her arms crossed over her chest, a look of profound disgust on her weathered face.

"I told you she was a flighty thing, Hank. You should’ve kept her in the basement on a chain. You’re too soft."

She spat on the dirt. "If it wasn't for this little girl speaking up, she’d be halfway to the interstate by now. We don't have the cash to buy you another wife, son."

Mom managed to lift her head. The warmth that used to be in her eyes—the way she used to tuck my hair behind my ears—was gone. There was only a cold, jagged loathing.

"You little demon," she rasped, her voice a ghost of itself. "I should have smothered you in your sleep."

Hank reached for a heavy iron pry bar, swearing he’d break her legs so she’d never take another step toward the road.

I paused, clutching my piece of honey-toast. I looked at her, my face smudged with dirt, and forced a smile that I hoped looked both innocent and chilling.

"Daddy, if you break her legs, who’s going to hoe the garden?"

Hank hesitated. The logic of the harvest won out over his rage. He cursed, dropped the bar, and grabbed a heavy rusted chain from the back of his truck. He looped it around her neck like a dog.

"I’ll break 'em after the corn is in," he growled.

After he left to go play cards and drink with the neighbors, I crept out to the yard. I managed to get her down and brought her a bowl of cold scraps.

"Mommy, eat," I whispered.

She jerked her head away, her lip curling. With a sudden burst of energy, she slapped the bowl out of my hand and spat in my face.

"Get away from me! You’re not mine. You’re one of them."

I stood there, the cold grease from the scraps dripping down my cheek. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand.

Hank chose that moment to stumble back into the yard. Hearing her shout, he didn't even hesitate. He kicked her off the porch steps and followed her down, his boots connecting with her ribs.

"I’ve been too damn nice to you!" he screamed.

He dragged her by the hair toward the side shed, the chain rattling against the stones.

"You sleep on the dirt from now on," he barked. He turned to me, his eyes bloodshot and impatient. "Hey, brat. If she tries to touch you again, you tell me or your Granny. You hear?"

I nodded obediently. He grunted, stumbling toward the house. "You're gonna be worth a few thousand in a couple of years," he muttered to himself. "Better not let you die yet."

Late that night, after the house fell into a heavy, alcohol-soaked silence, I crept into the shed.

She was shivering on the ground, her skin burning with fever. Granny kept all the medicine locked in a tin box; she said "strays and traitors" didn't deserve it.

I spent the night dipping a rag into a bucket of cold water, wiping her brow over and over. I sat there in the dark, hugging my knees.

This was Day One of my second chance.

In my first life, this was the beginning of the end. I had been brainwashed into thinking "family" was sacred, that her escape was a betrayal of me. So I told on her. And I watched her die.

This time, I had turned her in again—but only to save her legs. I knew if she ran that day, Hank would have caught her at the trailhead and crippled her for life.

I was smarter now. I knew she was a prisoner. I knew I was the child of a monster.

This time, I wasn't going to keep her here. I was going to be the one to open the gate.