Chapter 2
In my past life, after Dad died, I became nothing.
Mom lost interest in me the moment her "pretty toy" was gone. She said I was ugly, useless, a waste of food. She found a new man within a month — some terrified college kid she'd snatched from a parking garage.
I became the house servant. Cooking, cleaning, fetching things for Grandma. If I was too slow, Mom hit me. If I cried, Grandma hit me harder.
By seven, I stopped crying altogether.
By nine, I understood everything. Dad hadn't been trying to abandon me. He'd been trying to save us both. The bag he packed — my jacket was in it. My favorite snacks. A letter he'd written to the police.
He loved me more than anyone in the world, and I handed him to his killers.
I died at ten. Mom came home drunk, furious that her new captive had bitten her. She grabbed me by the throat and threw me against the wall. I heard my skull crack against the brick.
The last thing I saw was Grandma stepping over my body to pour herself another coffee.
...
Now I was back. Five years old, standing in this nightmare house, but carrying ten years of memories.
I knew everything — where Mom hid her keys, which floorboards creaked, where Grandma kept the sedatives she used on Dad, and most importantly, the layout of the property's security system.
Mom's family was wealthy. Old money. The kind that bought silence and made people disappear. The estate sat on forty acres, surrounded by walls, cameras, and a single gate controlled by a code only Mom and Grandma knew.
No one in the nearby town asked questions. Grandma's family had owned that town for three generations.
But I also knew something they didn't: I knew the code. In my past life, I'd watched Mom punch it in a thousand times. She never bothered hiding it from me. After all, where would a crippled, beaten child go?
This time would be different.
I dried my tears and looked at the storage room door. Behind it, Dad was bleeding and broken, convinced his own daughter had destroyed him.
He was right to hate me. In his eyes, I had chosen Mom's side.
I couldn't explain the truth to him. Not yet. If I suddenly changed, Mom and Grandma would notice. They watched everything.
So I had to keep pretending. Keep being their obedient little spy. Keep smiling while my heart shattered every time Dad looked at me with disgust.
I had to earn his hatred to save his life.
...
That night, I lay in my small bed and planned.
Dad's injuries were severe but not permanent — not this time. In my past life, Mom had destroyed his knees immediately. But because I reported him early enough this time, before he actually reached the fence, Mom only punished his hand. She considered it a warning.
That meant Dad could still walk. He could still run.
I just needed three things: the gate code, a distraction, and someone on the outside.
The first, I already had. The second, I could create. The third... that was the hardest part.
In my previous life, there was one person who helped me understand the truth after Dad died. A delivery driver named Marcus who came to the estate every Thursday with groceries. He was the only outsider allowed past the gate.
He once whispered to me, "Kid, if you ever need help, leave a note in the empty milk crate."
I never took him up on it. I was too brainwashed, too broken.
This time, I wouldn't waste his kindness.
Mom lost interest in me the moment her "pretty toy" was gone. She said I was ugly, useless, a waste of food. She found a new man within a month — some terrified college kid she'd snatched from a parking garage.
I became the house servant. Cooking, cleaning, fetching things for Grandma. If I was too slow, Mom hit me. If I cried, Grandma hit me harder.
By seven, I stopped crying altogether.
By nine, I understood everything. Dad hadn't been trying to abandon me. He'd been trying to save us both. The bag he packed — my jacket was in it. My favorite snacks. A letter he'd written to the police.
He loved me more than anyone in the world, and I handed him to his killers.
I died at ten. Mom came home drunk, furious that her new captive had bitten her. She grabbed me by the throat and threw me against the wall. I heard my skull crack against the brick.
The last thing I saw was Grandma stepping over my body to pour herself another coffee.
...
Now I was back. Five years old, standing in this nightmare house, but carrying ten years of memories.
I knew everything — where Mom hid her keys, which floorboards creaked, where Grandma kept the sedatives she used on Dad, and most importantly, the layout of the property's security system.
Mom's family was wealthy. Old money. The kind that bought silence and made people disappear. The estate sat on forty acres, surrounded by walls, cameras, and a single gate controlled by a code only Mom and Grandma knew.
No one in the nearby town asked questions. Grandma's family had owned that town for three generations.
But I also knew something they didn't: I knew the code. In my past life, I'd watched Mom punch it in a thousand times. She never bothered hiding it from me. After all, where would a crippled, beaten child go?
This time would be different.
I dried my tears and looked at the storage room door. Behind it, Dad was bleeding and broken, convinced his own daughter had destroyed him.
He was right to hate me. In his eyes, I had chosen Mom's side.
I couldn't explain the truth to him. Not yet. If I suddenly changed, Mom and Grandma would notice. They watched everything.
So I had to keep pretending. Keep being their obedient little spy. Keep smiling while my heart shattered every time Dad looked at me with disgust.
I had to earn his hatred to save his life.
...
That night, I lay in my small bed and planned.
Dad's injuries were severe but not permanent — not this time. In my past life, Mom had destroyed his knees immediately. But because I reported him early enough this time, before he actually reached the fence, Mom only punished his hand. She considered it a warning.
That meant Dad could still walk. He could still run.
I just needed three things: the gate code, a distraction, and someone on the outside.
The first, I already had. The second, I could create. The third... that was the hardest part.
In my previous life, there was one person who helped me understand the truth after Dad died. A delivery driver named Marcus who came to the estate every Thursday with groceries. He was the only outsider allowed past the gate.
He once whispered to me, "Kid, if you ever need help, leave a note in the empty milk crate."
I never took him up on it. I was too brainwashed, too broken.
This time, I wouldn't waste his kindness.