Chapter 9

As he spoke, he couldn't help but cry. He didn't know why he was like this.

He'd only copied her homework for half a year.

Why did his heart hurt so uncontrollably?

He had no right to blame those who'd bullied her.

Because, without realizing it, he'd become one of them.

Damien Sterling watched each video one by one.

Until he saw a video of several girls holding Emily down in a bathroom sink, in the school where he was supposed to protect her.

He recognized every face. These were Sophia's friends.

His hands were shaking so badly the phone nearly slipped from his grip.

"She never told anyone," Noah said from behind him. "Not once."

"Why?"

"Because she knew you'd take Sophia's side. You always do."

The truth was so simple it was devastating.

Damien scrolled through Emily's phone—the one Michael had given her. There were no friends in the contacts. No text conversations except functional ones: Maria about meals, a pharmacy about prescriptions, Dr. Evans about appointments.

Six months of living in a house full of people, and her phone looked like it belonged to someone completely alone.

Then he found the diary.

Not a physical one—a notes app, tucked in a folder labeled "Homework." The original Emily's last entry was dated the day she tried to end it all.

"I thought coming home meant being loved.

I was wrong.

I am a stranger wearing their daughter's face.

I'm sorry for taking up space.

I'm sorry I wasn't Sophia.

I'm sorry I got sick and couldn't even do that quietly enough."

Damien dropped the phone.

His knees hit the cold hospital floor.

The sound brought Daniel running from the hallway. He found his younger brother on the ground, sobbing like the sixteen-year-old he actually was.

"She was dying," Damien choked out. "She was dying this whole time, and I threw curry at her face."

Daniel crouched beside him. He didn't say it was okay. He didn't say it wasn't Damien's fault.

Because it was.

It was all of theirs.

"She's in surgery now," Daniel said. "Dr. Evans is doing everything she can."

"Will she—"

"I don't know."

Michael Sterling arrived twenty minutes later, still in his suit from the office. Mrs. Sterling was behind him, mascara streaked, clutching Mr. Sterling's arm.

"Where is she?" Mrs. Sterling's voice was raw. "Where's my daughter?"

Damien looked up at his mother.

"Now she's your daughter?"

The hallway went dead silent.

"For six months," Damien continued, his voice cracking, "she slept in a guest room with no first-aid kit. She ate leftovers. She went to school alone. She got bullied every single day—by Sophia's friends—and not one of us asked her if she was okay. Not once."

Mrs. Sterling's face crumbled.

"And now she's dying, Mom. She has stomach cancer. She's known for months. And she didn't tell us because she knew—she KNEW—we wouldn't care."

Mr. Sterling sank into a chair.

Michael stood frozen, his phone still in his hand, the bank card statement open on the screen. A few hundred dollars. That was all Emily had spent in six months. On painkillers from a hospital pharmacy.

His little sister had been buying her own pain medication because no one in this family had ever asked, "Emily, are you okay?"