Chapter 2Your Debt Your Grave Now

Beatrice was vibrating with rage. She stabbed a finger toward my face.

"You’re a monster, Nancy! A cold-blooded animal! You want to ruin your sister's life? Is that it? You’re just jealous of her!"

I didn't answer. I just watched her spiral. In her world, Melanie’s reputation was a holy relic, and my integrity was something to be stepped on.

Beatrice lunged for the utility closet and pulled out a heavy length of nylon rope she used for gardening. Before I could process the insanity of it, she and Melanie tackled me. It wasn't a fair fight—two against one. They shoved me into the windowless pantry, the air thick with the smell of stale flour and dust.

"You won't apologize?" Beatrice hissed through the door. "Fine. You stay in there and reflect. You don't get a drop of water or a bite of food until you agree to fix this."

The heavy click of a padlock echoed in the small space.

I leaned back against a stack of storage bins, listening to the muffled sounds of the house. Around midnight, I heard the lock rattle. Melanie slipped inside, holding a spare key and a single sheet of paper.

Without Beatrice watching, she dropped the "sweet girl" act. Her face was a mask of pure malice.

"Listen to me, you pathetic loser," she whispered, her voice a venomous crawl. "I know where you hide your emergency cash. That little tin box under your bed? The money you’ve been slaving away for at the tutoring center? If you don't take the fall for this, I’ll burn every cent of it tomorrow. Then I'll tell Mom you’ve been 'working' as an escort."

My fists clenched. That money represented two years of double shifts and skipped meals. It was my ticket out of this house.

I stared at her until she shifted uncomfortably. "What are you looking at? Sign the confession."

"Fine," I whispered, letting my head hang, forcing a sob to break my voice. "I’ll sign. Just... don't touch my money. It’s all I have."

Melanie smirked, the triumph radiant on her face. "See? Was that so hard? You always were the weak one."

She slapped a handwritten note onto my lap. I, Nancy, admit to using Melanie’s identity for all recent loans and accept full responsibility for the debt.

I took the pen. Using my left hand—the hand I never use for writing—I scrawled "Nancy" in a shaky, distorted script.

Melanie didn't notice the detail. She snatched the paper, blew on the ink, and reached into my coat pocket to steal my ID for good measure.

"Smart move. Now, when you get your paycheck next month, make sure it goes straight to me. I have bills to pay."

The door locked again. The footsteps faded. I wiped my face dry, the "tears" vanishing instantly.