Chapter 2: House of Shadows

Later, I learned the truth.

The Evans family was filthy rich. The boy who’d kicked me into the pool was Jason Evans, the golden boy of the house.

Rumors ran through the halls of the big white house like static. The staff whispered that Jason’s mom had died because my mom drove her to her grave with rage. The neighbors had their own stories, too, about how the Evanses used to be happier before we came along.

He hated me. Wanted me gone.

It didn’t take long before I realized just how far he’d go. Jason’s glare was a constant threat. Sometimes his glare made my skin prickle, like I’d been marked for erasure. I learned to keep my eyes on the floor, to move silently like the housekeepers did when he passed.

After that, I tried to avoid him whenever I could, because just seeing him brought back the terror of nearly drowning.

Every time his shadow fell across a hallway, my stomach dropped. There was something about the way he looked at me—like I was a stain that wouldn’t wash out.

But how could I really avoid him when we lived under the same roof?

Every room echoed with his presence, from the clatter of his sneakers on the stairs to the scent of his cologne lingering in the air.

One rainy day, I’d just come in and hadn’t even taken off my shoes when Jason’s car pulled up behind me.

The storm had soaked me through, my sneakers squelching on the marble entryway. The marble floor was slick with rain, and the housekeepers moved fast, like they’d done this a hundred times for someone important. I barely had time to catch my breath before the sound of expensive tires crunching on gravel announced his arrival.

The driver and housekeepers swarmed around him, fussing over him.

They bent low, umbrellas and towels at the ready, treating him like royalty. It was a weird kind of parade, all for one teenage boy.

I had nowhere to hide, so I shrank into a corner, head down, praying he’d just walk past.

I pressed myself against the coat rack, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the rain. I willed myself invisible, like some scrawny stray sneaking scraps from the kitchen.

But he stopped at the door and said, "The shoes are dirty."

His voice was calm, casual, but every head in the foyer snapped up at once. The air shifted, thickening with tension.

Everyone scrambled, practically falling over themselves to wipe his shoes clean, but he turned his chin toward me, trembling in the corner.

Their hands shook as they reached for rags and towels, but Jason’s gaze locked onto me. I felt small, pinned like a bug under glass.

"You—come wipe them."

His words landed like a slap. The housekeepers’ eyes darted away. My cheeks burned with humiliation, but I didn’t dare argue.

I had no choice but to step forward, take the towel from a housekeeper, and crouch down.

The tile was cold against my knees. I could see his sneakers up close—white, spotless Nikes, probably new that week.

"Get on your knees and wipe them."

He wanted me to kneel. I didn’t dare refuse.

My knees hit the floor. I tried to keep my hands steady, hoping it’d be over quick, pretending I was anywhere else.

But when I knelt to wipe his shoes, he kicked me aside.

My shoulder slammed into the coat rack, pain shooting down my arm. The world spun for a moment, the humiliation stinging almost worse than the bruise.

"Spineless."

He spat the word like it was dirty. Laughter from the staff was low and nervous.

Clutching my aching shoulder, I thought, Bones that are too hard are easy to break. Maybe it’s better to be spineless.

I bit down hard, holding back tears. In that house, pride was a luxury I couldn’t afford.