Chapter 10
She was eleven.
I was six.
The Briggs family—my foster family—had just gotten word from some private investigator that the Blackwells might want me back.
Carl Briggs panicked. A meal ticket, walking out the door.
But it was Serena who made the call.
Twelve years old, voice sweet as candy, she'd phoned Carl herself.
"Don't let them take her back. And don't fix her voice—ever. If she can talk, she'll tell them everything."
I know this because Carl told me himself—years later, drunk, laughing.
"Your 'sister' paid me twenty grand from her allowance. Twenty grand! At twelve! To keep you broken."
The pills started after that. Tiny white tablets crushed into my food.
Anti-anxiety meds in doses high enough to damage a child's developing vocal cords.
By the time I was ten, the selective mutism had fused with physical damage. I wasn't just scared to speak—I literally couldn't.
When I finished thinking it all, Ezra's hands were white on the steering wheel.
His knuckles pressed against skin like bone trying to escape.
"I'm going to destroy her," he said quietly.
It wasn't a threat. It was a fact.
Within 48 hours, Ezra's legal team had subpoenaed medical records, pharmacy logs, and Carl Briggs's bank statements.
The trail Serena had thought was buried turned out to be meticulously documented—every transaction, every refill, every payment routed through offshore accounts that a twelve-year-old shouldn't have known how to open.
But Serena had always been precocious.
The news broke on a Tuesday.
*"SHOCKING: Blackwell 'Angel' Accused of Poisoning Biological Sister Since Childhood."*
*"Pharmaceutical Records Reveal Years of Deliberate Drugging."*
*"Carl Briggs Arrested—Cooperating with Authorities, Names Serena Blackwell as Orchestrator."*
Serena held a press conference.
Trembling chin. Tears on command. White dress—always white.
"These accusations are fabricated by people who want to tear our family apart. I love my sister. I would never—"
But the evidence was forensic. Airtight. Undeniable.
Carl Briggs sang like a bird the moment prosecutors offered a deal.
And the pharmacy records matched—dosage by dosage, year by year—the progressive deterioration documented in my medical files.
That night, I watched the coverage from Ezra's penthouse.
Serena's face on every screen—mascara-streaked, voice rising to a shriek as reporters closed in.
And then—mid-sentence—she stopped.
Her mouth moved. No sound came out.
She clutched her throat. Eyes wild with terror.
Tried again. Nothing.
The headline updated within minutes: *"Serena Blackwell Loses Voice During Live Press Conference."*
I stared at the screen.
The universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor.
---
I was six.
The Briggs family—my foster family—had just gotten word from some private investigator that the Blackwells might want me back.
Carl Briggs panicked. A meal ticket, walking out the door.
But it was Serena who made the call.
Twelve years old, voice sweet as candy, she'd phoned Carl herself.
"Don't let them take her back. And don't fix her voice—ever. If she can talk, she'll tell them everything."
I know this because Carl told me himself—years later, drunk, laughing.
"Your 'sister' paid me twenty grand from her allowance. Twenty grand! At twelve! To keep you broken."
The pills started after that. Tiny white tablets crushed into my food.
Anti-anxiety meds in doses high enough to damage a child's developing vocal cords.
By the time I was ten, the selective mutism had fused with physical damage. I wasn't just scared to speak—I literally couldn't.
When I finished thinking it all, Ezra's hands were white on the steering wheel.
His knuckles pressed against skin like bone trying to escape.
"I'm going to destroy her," he said quietly.
It wasn't a threat. It was a fact.
Within 48 hours, Ezra's legal team had subpoenaed medical records, pharmacy logs, and Carl Briggs's bank statements.
The trail Serena had thought was buried turned out to be meticulously documented—every transaction, every refill, every payment routed through offshore accounts that a twelve-year-old shouldn't have known how to open.
But Serena had always been precocious.
The news broke on a Tuesday.
*"SHOCKING: Blackwell 'Angel' Accused of Poisoning Biological Sister Since Childhood."*
*"Pharmaceutical Records Reveal Years of Deliberate Drugging."*
*"Carl Briggs Arrested—Cooperating with Authorities, Names Serena Blackwell as Orchestrator."*
Serena held a press conference.
Trembling chin. Tears on command. White dress—always white.
"These accusations are fabricated by people who want to tear our family apart. I love my sister. I would never—"
But the evidence was forensic. Airtight. Undeniable.
Carl Briggs sang like a bird the moment prosecutors offered a deal.
And the pharmacy records matched—dosage by dosage, year by year—the progressive deterioration documented in my medical files.
That night, I watched the coverage from Ezra's penthouse.
Serena's face on every screen—mascara-streaked, voice rising to a shriek as reporters closed in.
And then—mid-sentence—she stopped.
Her mouth moved. No sound came out.
She clutched her throat. Eyes wild with terror.
Tried again. Nothing.
The headline updated within minutes: *"Serena Blackwell Loses Voice During Live Press Conference."*
I stared at the screen.
The universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor.
---