I swallowed the metallic tang of blood filling my mouth, forcing my legs to move until I found Dad three kilometers away.
But when I finally reached him, panting and desperate, the look in his eyes stopped me cold. He wasn't relieved. He was chillingly detached.
"Cathy," he said, his voice void of emotion. "How would you like a different mother?"
I stared at him, confused.
"Do you like Maya?"
Why was he asking this now? Mom was in danger. I didn't have time for his riddles. Ignoring the dread pooling in my stomach, I grabbed his hand. "We have to go back. We have to find Mom."
I turned to lead him, but a sudden, exploding pain shattered the back of my skull. The world went black.
The first thing I heard was a guttural, heart-rending wail.
Consciousness returned in a haze of agony. Mom was screaming, her voice raw with grief and rage.
"You ungrateful little wretch! I told you to find help, and here you are sleeping!"
A sharp sting slapped across my face. I tasted something sweet and crumbly near my lips—peach pastry.
Where did that come from?
Mom struck me again. It was the first time she had ever hit me, and she put every ounce of her terror behind the blow.
"I let you be greedy! I let you eat! From the day you were born, have I ever mistreated you?" She shook me violently. "You really are a monster. No humanity in you at all! You sent your father running in the opposite direction while you gorged yourself here. I should beat you to death!"
I lay there, too stunned to react. The pastry crumbs, the wrong direction, the blow to my head—it all clicked into place.
Dad hadn't been lost. He had been plotting this. He knocked me out, planted the food on me, and framed me to cover his own tracks.
I tried to explain, choking out words through my tears, but Mom was deaf to my pleas.
Finally, Dad stepped in. He put on a show of reluctance, pulling the hysterical woman off me. "Isabel, that's enough. You'll kill her."
Later, Dad used the incident as leverage to demand a divorce. He wanted to be rid of the "crazy woman" who beat her child. But Grandpa Whitney intervened. His authority was absolute; he crushed the divorce proceedings to protect the family reputation.
Trapped in a loveless marriage, Mom turned her resentment toward me. I became the lightning rod for her fury. Dad would watch from a distance, his eyes holding a flicker of guilt, but he never lifted a finger to stop her.
Clang.
The iron basin hit the floor, spinning noisily. I watched Mom's chest heave with exertion.
I understood then. Mom didn't love me anymore. Perhaps the love had died the moment she believed I abandoned her in that cornfield.
I turned and walked toward the door.
"Cathy!"
My little brother, Tony, tried to run after me, but Mom grabbed his arm.
"Stay away from her," she hissed. "Let her die wherever she wants. She's not your sister."
I glanced back one last time. Tony's eyes were wide, filled with tears and confusion.
"Big sister!"
That was the last time I ever heard him call me that.
I ran to the back mountain. The floodwaters had receded, leaving the trees draped in debris—shredded clothes, trash, the skeletal remains of a life washed away.
I wouldn't go back to that house. Not ever.
I found a small rabbit burrow tucked against a slope. It was too small, so I used a sturdy branch to dig. When the wood snapped, I used my hands. I clawed at the frozen earth until dirt jammed under my nails, until my fingertips were raw and bloody.
I didn't care. I wasn't going back.
Night fell, bringing a biting wind. I gathered brush to block the entrance of my small cave. Huddled in the dark, I cradled a small rabbit I had managed to catch. Hunger gnawed at my stomach, but I couldn't bring myself to eat it.
When spring comes, I thought, shivering, I'll give it to Tony. He's always wanted a pet.
Two days passed. Starvation drove me out of the burrow. I headed toward the riverbank, hoping to spear a fish.
That was when I saw it.
High up in a tree, snagged on a branch, hung a small shoe.
It was faded, water-stained, but I knew it instantly. It was the shoe Tony had worn that summer I forced him to catch fish with me. The memory clawed at my throat—my brother, who was terrified of water, wading in because I told him to.
A sense of foreboding seized me. I clutched the rabbit tighter to my chest, intending to give it to him today. I needed to see him.
I hadn't even reached the house when a figure burst from the direction of our courtyard.
Dylan Finch. He was running erratically, stumbling as if drunk, his face pale with terror.
"Mr. Finch!" I called out, panic rising. "Did you just come from my house? Is Tony there?"
Dylan froze when he saw me. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. He shook his head violently, his eyes darting around.
"No! I don't know anything! Don't ask me! I didn't see it!"
He shoved past me, weaving and staggering down the path.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I sprinted toward the house, screaming Tony's name.
Silence answered me.
I rushed into the courtyard and stopped. The world tilted on its axis.
Tony lay in the center of the yard, surrounded by a widening pool of crimson.
The rabbit dropped from my hands and scurried away.
I fell to my knees beside him. The blood was still warm. The tendons in his small wrists had been severed, the flesh laid open in a gruesome display.
I had been wrong about one thing. Tony didn't listen to Mom the most. He listened to me.
He was terrified of bugs. He hated them. Yet, staring at the horrific wounds on his wrists, I realized what had happened. He had been playing the game I taught him.
The Worm Game.
He had tried to pick out the "worms" jumping in his wrists—his own exposed tendons.
A scream tore from my throat, shattering the silence of the courtyard.
I had brought shame upon my mother.
And now, I had killed my brother.
