Chapter 4

Being a ghost gives you a lot of time to think. Tethered to my father, I was forced to relive not just my death, but my life. The memories came in sharp, painful flashes.

I remembered a dinner from a few years ago. I was sixteen. I had a severe peanut allergy, something my mother always used to be so careful about. But that night, she made Pad Thai. The whole kitchen smelled of peanut sauce.

"Mom," I said, my throat already starting to feel tight. "I can't eat this."

She didn't look up from her plate. "Ethan loved Pad Thai. We're having Pad Thai."

"But my allergy," I pleaded. "I could have a reaction."

My father finally spoke, his voice dripping with disdain. "Don't be so dramatic, Chloe. You're not the center of the universe. Your mother is honoring your brother."

"But I could die," I whispered, my voice shaking.

My mother slammed her fork down. "Then die! Maybe then you'll finally understand the pain you put us through! Maybe then you'll have atoned for killing him!"

My father just sat there, silent, watching me. His silence was his agreement.

I stumbled away from the table, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. I could feel my throat closing up. I fumbled for my EpiPen, my vision starting to blur at the edges. I managed to jab it into my thigh just as my knees gave out.

I lay on the kitchen floor, gasping for air, while they continued to eat. They didn't even look at me. They just kept talking about Ethan.

I didn't die that night. I crawled to my room and called 911 myself. The paramedics came, their faces a mixture of concern and confusion as they saw my parents still sitting at the dinner table, completely unfazed.

I remembered the ride to the hospital, the shame I felt as I had to explain to the nurses that my parents hadn't called.

"They're just... grieving," I had lied, trying to protect them. Trying to maintain the illusion of a normal family.

When they finally arrived at the hospital hours later, it wasn't with concern. It was with fury.

"How dare you?" my father hissed, grabbing my arm so hard I could feel his fingers digging into my bone. "You called an ambulance? You wanted to embarrass us? To make us look like bad parents?"

"I couldn't breathe," I cried.

"You're a liar," my mother said, her eyes filled with venom. "You did it for attention. Just like you always do."

That was the night I truly understood. It wasn't just that they blamed me for Ethan's death. It was that they wished I had died instead. My life was an inconvenience, a constant, painful reminder of the son they had lost.

Floating in the corner of my father's office now, I watched him stare at the evidence board. At the photos of my dismembered body. And I knew, with a chilling certainty, that he felt more for the anonymous victim on that board than he ever did for the daughter who lay dying on his kitchen floor.