I march upstairs, stomach roiling.
He follows, neck bites burning my eyes.
When his thumb tilts my chin, I retch. His gaze hardens: "Disgusted by me?"
I hold his stare.
He doesn't know my brother's dead, still uses him as leverage.
"Let me go. I can't take it."
My voice is smoke.
He chuckles, stroking my bruised cheek: "Where would you go?"
I recall the snake-filled basement, shivering.
"You're right. I can't leave."
The second lie rolls smooth.
He kisses my forehead, then Susan drags him to an art opening.
The registry call comes as I pack.
New identity in hand, I clutch my brother's urn and flee.
At airport security, the metal detector beeps—I laugh through tears.
As the plane lifts, lights shrink to pinpricks—the Yuki Smith who loved Alex Hilton dies here.
Now I'm someon
