Chapter 11
Charley always had a sharp tongue.
I came downstairs just as he brought out breakfast.
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Elsie and Marlin were gone–probably already eaten.
Back when our parents were still alive, Charley and I used to come home from school together, and he’d often cook for me.
I was incredibly picky back then, but he always knew exactly what I liked.
After our parents passed, I never had his cooking again.
Work at the company never seemed to end, and Charley started to resent me. He didn’t even want to share a meal with me
anymore.
I sat down at the table in silence, quietly eating the fried egg and toast in front of me.
The egg was perfectly golden on both sides.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed he had made a soft–boiled egg for himself.
I was allergic to milk, and I couldn’t stand runny eggs.
All these years, we’d done nothing but argue, yet somehow–he still remembered the little things.
The big dining room felt oppressively quiet.
It hit me then: the brother I used to tell everything to–now, sitting right beside me–felt like a complete stranger.
Sitting this close, eating together, I honestly didn’t know what to say.
So I fumbled for something–anything–to break the silence.
“The egg’s a little burnt.”
Charley gave an irritated grunt. “Didn’t you used to like it crispy?”
He stood up and pulled the plate away from me.
“It’s freezing outside, roads are shut down–you’re lucky there’s even food. Still picky?”
He headed back into the kitchen. A moment later, I heard the stove click on again.
In just a few minutes, he brought out another fried egg.
Without even looking at me, he dropped the plate in front of me.
“This is the last one. If you’re still not happy, make it yourself.”
I suddenly felt a tightness in my chest.
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I ducked my head and kept eating, trying to ignore the sting behind my eyes.
His tone grew more impatient. “That’s enough drama.
“The weather’s clearing up–the roads should reopen this afternoon. Eat up. You’re coming back with me.”
It felt like something was lodged in my throat.
For a second, I nearly said yes.
In the end, it was just the two of us now–we were all the family we had left.
But before I could speak, he glanced upstairs, voice full of contempt.
“That man’s got money. Don’t worry about him.
“Let him find someone else to take him. His treatment, his life–he can handle it himself.
“Don’t waste your time on people like that, with their own agendas…”
So, this wasn’t just about breakfast.
What he really meant was: if I wanted to go back with him, I had to leave Nolan behind.
The food in my mouth suddenly felt hard to swallow.
I set my fork down–not too hard, not too soft–and looked over at him.
“And what exactly makes him the one with bad intentions?”
The rare trace of warmth in Charley’s face vanished in a heartbeat.
“You’re seriously defending him?
“You traveled all this way for a complete stranger–trudged through a snowstorm for hours just to find him a doctor.”
His voice sharpened with rising anger.
“Look at yourself. Do you even know what you’ve become?
“Did you care this much when Mom and Dad died?”
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The knife that had been lodged in my heart for seven years suddenly twisted like someone had grabbed the handle and turned it.
I shot to my feet, laughing coldly.
The dam finally broke. I was done pretending.
“This is what I’ve become?
“Charley, you were the one who told me he was my brother. You told me to stop bothering you, to go with him.
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Chapter 11
“Isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this exactly how you pictured it? Me gone, him in my place?”
Didn’t it all go according to your plan?
His lips quivered slightly.
A flicker of guilt passed through his eyes, quickly replaced by a surge of fury. “So it was all an act.”
I didn’t flinch. I stared straight at him.
“Yeah, I was acting. But you were the one who told me to leave.
“I stayed in the Lyons family for seven years and you hated every second of it. Now I’m finally gone and you’re still not satisfied.
“Seven years ago, I argued with our parents and stayed home.
“I couldn’t have known there’d be an earthquake. They died because of me–and I’ve lived with that guilt every single day.
“So tell me what more do you want from me?”
For seven years, I’d relived that day in my dreams–night after night.
That recording? The one I was terrified of? I’d played it on loop, again and again, in the middle of the night, like I was punishing myself.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my parents–covered in blood..
I was scared of the dark, of tight spaces. I slept with the lights on, and still spent every night wide awake.
I was mentally exhausted. Depressed.
If dying could make up for any of it, I would’ve done it a long time ago.
But my life was the one thing they gave theirs to save.
I’d tried to end it–more times than I could count. But every time, at the very last second, I pulled back.
Living felt like a betrayal. But dying would be one too.
So here I was–trapped. Alive, but barely.
I’d even wandered into dark alleys on purpose, over and over again.
Like some kind of lunatic, I used to hope that maybe, just maybe, some desperate stranger would jump out and stab me.
I looked at Charley, my eyes burning red.
“Why don’t you tell me what you want from me? Or better yet–why don’t you just kill me?”
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