Dangerously His

My name is Emily Vance. Seven years ago, I was called Cora Prescott. I killed my father, stepmother, and my stepbrother. September 12, 2017 "Where the hell are you, Cora? We're going to be late for Jake's graduation!" Patricia's voice cracked up the stairwell, sharp enough to rattle the picture frames. I grabbed my shoes and half-ran down the stairs, still fixing an earring. My father stood by the door, straightening his tie. He leaned in and kissed Patricia on the cheek, and she softened instantly, the way she always did around him and never did around me. "You look beautiful," he told her. The drive to the auditorium took twenty minutes. Patricia talked the whole way — about Jake's scholarship, about the seating chart, about the caterer for tonight's dinner. I watched the houses blur past the window and said nothing. The ceremony ran long. Rows of folding chairs, a gymnasium that smelled like floor wax and cheap perfume, my father clapping too loud when Jake's name was called. Afterward, the crowd thinned into knots of families taking photos. My father and Patricia got pulled aside by one of the school board members, deep in conversation about donation checks. I found myself alone near the trophy case, and that's when Jake found me. He was still in his cap and gown, diploma tube in one hand. He smiled the way he always smiled at me — a smile that meant something different when no one else was looking. "Hello, sister." He said the word like it belonged to him. "I may be in need of my graduation gift." My stomach dropped. I glanced past his shoulder, hoping to see my father, Patricia, anyone — but the hallway had emptied out around us. "I'll go to the store tomorrow and get you a gift," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted it to. He let out a laugh, then grabbed my arm hard enough that I was sure it would leave a bruise. He leaned in close enough that I could smell the mint on his breath. My whole body went rigid, the way you go still around something that bites. "Tonight," he said. "My room. Don't make me come find you." I nodded before I'd even decided to. It was easier than arguing. He straightened up, all charm again, and walked off to find our parents, laughing at something someone said, the golden boy, the graduate, the son everyone was proud of. I stayed by the trophy case, gripping the strap of my bag until my knuckles ached, waiting for my legs to remember how to move. Dinner was Patricia's idea of a celebration — the good china, candles she never usually bothered lighting, a turkey roast she'd spent all afternoon on like it was Christmas. My father sat at the head of the table looking proud enough to burst. "A toast," my father said, raising his glass. "To my son. Valedictorian, full ride to State, and not a bad bone in his body." Jake smiled down at his plate. Under the table, his foot found mine and pressed down, slow and deliberate. I choked on my water, coughing hard enough that Patricia shot me a look of disgust across the table. "Honestly, Cora." She sighed, dabbing at nothing on the tablecloth. "Chew like a person." My eyes watered. My heart was slamming so hard I could feel it in my throat. I set my fork down because my hand had started to shake, and I didn't trust myself to pick anything back up. Jake didn't even look at me. He just kept eating, calm, like nothing had happened at all. "You must be so proud of him," Patricia said to my father, then glanced my way like an afterthought. "Cora didn't even make the honor roll this year. Did you, Cora?" "I've been busy," I said. "Busy." She said the word like it tasted bad. "Jake works two jobs and still manages to graduate top of his class. Maybe you could learn something from your brother." Stepbrother.I didn't correct her. I never did. Jake reached over and squeezed my shoulder, the picture of a doting older brother. "Don't be so hard on her, Mom. Cora's got her own strengths." His hand lingered a beat too long before he let go. "I keep telling her, she just needs the right person to show her the way things work around here." My father laughed, oblivious, already refilling his wine. He never noticed the way Patricia went quiet and cold whenever I walked into a room, or the way Jake's jokes always had a second meaning underneath them. Or maybe he noticed and decided it was easier not to see it. I'd stopped trying to figure out which. "Pass the potatoes, Cora," Patricia said, and that was the end of it. Nobody asked how I was. Nobody asked if I was okay. In that house, I existed to pass the potatoes, clean up their mess, and be reminded, in a hundred small ways, that I didn't belong or matter. After dinner, my father hugged Jake goodnight and told him how proud he was, something even I, the one who shared his blood, never got the privilege of hearing. I went up to my room and sat on the edge of my bed, listening to the house settle around me — the creak of my father's footsteps down the hall, the click of Patricia's door, and somewhere below, the low sound of Jake's laughter, patient, unbothered, certain that I would come. I didn't cry that night. I made a decision instead — one that would end with all three of them dead by my hand. Or so I thought.