The Girl Who Remembered Her Own Murder

§PROLOGUE

The cold granite of the tombstone pressed against my cheek.

It was a cheap, sad little plot of land, littered with withered flowers and trash.

The name on the stone was Stellan Beckett.

My Stellan.

The rain plastered my hair to my skull, mixing with the blood trickling from the gash on my forehead.

A boot slammed into my ribs, and I coughed, tasting iron.

"Find anything?" a gruff voice asked.

"Nah, boss. She's got nothing on her," another voice replied. "Just a crazy bitch crying over some dead kid's grave."

The man they called boss loomed over me, his face a blur of shadows and menace.

"A real shame," he grunted, kicking Stellan's headstone. "This one was smart. Could've been useful."

Rage, white-hot and absolute, burned through the pain.

I lunged, my fingers clawing for his throat, a final, desperate act of defiance.

A sharp, searing pain shot through my back.

Then another.

The world tilted, the grey sky swirling into darkness.

My last thought was a silent promise, a scream that no one could hear.

*If I get another chance… I swear I’ll protect you.*

*I’ll burn their world to the ground.*

Then, nothing.

Until…

Light.

Harsh, fluorescent light, smelling of disinfectant and institutional sadness.

I was sitting on a stiff cot, the thin blanket rough against my skin.

Across the room, a woman with a clipboard called out names.

"Fallon Kincaid."

My name.

My *old* name.

My gaze snapped across the room, finding him instantly.

Stellan.

He was sitting on his own cot, his glasses slightly askew, looking frail and lost.

He was alive.

Two sets of potential adoptive parents stood waiting.

One was a woman with a kind, gentle face, her eyes filled with a quiet sorrow. Meredith Porter. Stellan's future. His doom.

The other was a man with a scarred face and tattoos crawling up his neck. My future. My crucible.

Our eyes met across the sterile room.

In that single, silent glance, everything was understood.

The shared memory of pain.

The impossible second chance.

The vow.

I stood up, my legs trembling, and walked past the scarred man without a second look.

I took Meredith Porter's gentle hand in mine.

Behind me, I heard a soft, determined voice.

Stellan Beckett had chosen the monster's path.

So I could choose his.

This time, things would be different.

§01

The drive from the State Group Home was quiet.

Meredith Porter held the steering wheel with a delicate grip, her knuckles white.

She kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror, her expression a mix of hope and apprehension.

"We're almost there, Fallon," she said, her voice as soft as her worn cardigan. "I know it's not much, but I hope you'll feel at home."

Home.

The word felt foreign, a language I hadn't spoken in two lifetimes.

The house was a small, neat bungalow on a quiet suburban street.

It was the kind of place that should have felt safe.

I knew better.

The front door opened before Meredith could find her keys.

A woman with a sour, pinched face and eyes that calculated everything stood in the doorway.

Brenda Jennings.

My adoptive father's sister.

The leech.

"So, you actually did it," Brenda said, her voice dripping with disapproval as she looked me up and down. "Spent my brother's hard-earned money on a charity case."

"Brenda, please," Meredith whispered, her shoulders slumping. "It was Michael's wish. He always wanted to—"

"Michael's wishes got him killed," Brenda snapped, cutting her off. "And now you're bringing another mouth to feed into this house. A house, I might add, that my mother and I are graciously sharing with you."

I watched Meredith shrink under the verbal assault, her gentle nature no match for Brenda's venom.

In my past life, this was the poison that slowly killed Stellan.

They bled Meredith dry, emotionally and financially, and when she had nothing left to give, they turned on him.

This time, I was the antibody.

We stepped inside.

The house was clean but cramped.

It was clear that Brenda and her family occupied the best parts of it.

An older woman, the grandmother, sat in an armchair, offering a weak, noncommittal smile.

She was the peacekeeper, which meant she did nothing.

The plan, I remembered from Stellan’s tearful phone calls, was for me to stay in the tiny room that was once a storage closet.

Meredith started to lead me there, but I stopped in the middle of the living room.

"Actually," I said, my voice clear and steady, cutting through the tense air. "I have a question."

Brenda's eyes narrowed. "What is it, little girl?"

"This house," I said, looking around slowly. "Whose name is on the deed?"

The air thickened.

Meredith looked horrified.

Brenda’s face went from sour to thunderous.

"What kind of question is that?" she demanded.

"A simple one," I replied, meeting her glare without flinching. "Because if this house belongs to Meredith, then it seems strange that the master bedroom is occupied by… guests."

§02

The silence in the room was a physical thing, heavy and suffocating.

Brenda’s face flushed a deep, ugly red.

"You insolent little brat!" she spat, pointing a trembling finger at me. "How dare you?"

Meredith grabbed my arm, her touch frantic. "Fallon, stop it. Brenda is your aunt. We're family."

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