The Greyhound bus lurched over a pothole, jostling Kasie awake. She hadn't meant to fall asleep. The vibration of the engine had numbed her legs, and the faint smell of diesel and old upholstery clung to her coat. Outside the window, the sleek skyscrapers of Manhattan had long since vanished, replaced by the skeletal remains of steel mills and the faded brick fronts of row houses.

This was home. Or the geographical location that held that title.

She caught her reflection in the glass. Her face was pale, the hollows beneath her cheekbones more pronounced than she remembered. Three years of marriage to Clemence had drained the color from her, leaving behind a ghost.

Her phone buzzed in her lap. A text from an unknown number. This is to confirm that your personal effects have been delivered to the specified address in Scranton, PA. Regards, Foreman Legal. It was cold, clinical, and utterly final.

The bus hissed to a stop at the depot. Kasie grabbed her single suitcase-the same one she had arrived with-and stepped off into the brisk air. The smell hit her immediately: rust, coal dust, and damp earth. It was the scent of her childhood, the aroma of a town that had been dying slowly for decades.

She dragged the wheels over the cracked sidewalk, heading toward the two-story house at the end of the block. The white paint was peeling, and the porch sagged in the middle, but it was the only address she had left.

The front door swung open before she could reach for the bell.

Brandan Chavez filled the doorway. He was built like a linebacker, thick arms crossed over a stained t-shirt. His face, always set in a permanent scowl, darkened when he saw her.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You actually came back."

"Hi, Brandan," Kasie said. Her throat was dry, the words scratching their way out.

His eyes dropped to the suitcase behind her. A sneer twisted his lips. "Let me guess. Foreman finally kicked you to the curb?"

Before she could answer, a flash of pink appeared behind Brandan's bulk. Calista slipped out onto the porch, her hands clasped in front of her. She was wearing a sundress, a brand-new designer label that Kasie recognized from a boutique window on Fifth Avenue. A dress Kasie had lingered over but never bought.

"Kasie!" Calista gasped, her face a portrait of concern. "You're back! Clemence was so worried when you left, he insisted I come check on you, make sure you were alright with everyone. He told me you... you weren't feeling well."

Brandan's demeanor shifted instantly. He turned, his hard face softening as he reached out to steady Calista. "Hey, careful. You know the doctor said you need to rest."

He shot a glare back at Kasie. "You better have a good explanation for what happened in that lab."

Kasie blinked, the exhaustion making her slow. "The lab? The accident was months ago. The report said it was faulty wiring."

"Report?" Brandan scoffed. "Those Ivy League schools only cover their own asses. They'll say anything to protect the affirmative action cases they let in. Calista told me the truth. You messed up the calibration, and she paid the price."

Calista reached out, her fingers lightly touching Brandan's sleeve. Her eyes glistened. "Brandan, please. Don't be mad at her. I'm sure she didn't mean to."

The soft words were gasoline on Brandan's fire. "Didn't mean to? You could have been killed! You ruined her research, and now you're back here with your tail between your legs. You're nothing but a jinx."

The front door opened again. Jerold, their father, stood in the hallway, a beer in his hand. Jefferson, the middle brother, leaned against the stair railing. Neither spoke. Neither defended her. They just watched with flat, indifferent eyes.

Brandan's gaze drifted past Kasie, landing on the driveway. Parked there, covered in a layer of dust, was an old Ford Mustang. It was a classic, a '69 fastback. Kasie had bought it with her scholarship money, the only thing she had ever owned that felt purely hers.

"You don't get to drive that anymore," Brandan declared.

He stepped off the porch, closing the distance between them. Before Kasie could react, his hand shot into her coat pocket. He pulled out the keys, the metal jingling sharply in the quiet street.

He tossed them to Calista, who caught them with a surprised look. "Here. Your car got scratched taking Dad to the hospital last week. Take this one."

Calista held the keys up, a small smile playing on her lips. "Oh, I couldn't. It's Kasie's..."

"She owes you!" Brandan barked, cutting her off. "Take it."

Kasie watched the keys change hands. She watched her brothers circle around Calista, their protectiveness a wall she could never breach. The last ember of warmth in her chest flickered, then died. She wasn't just the black sheep; she was the enemy.

She didn't argue. She didn't have the energy. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and walked past them, stepping into the house that had never been a home.

Kasie woke up shivering. The storage room at the back of the house was freezing, the single blanket on the cot doing nothing to block the draft from the window. Her head pounded, a thick, throbbing ache that made the room spin. Her skin was hot and dry, her throat raw.

She needed water. She pushed herself up, her muscles screaming in protest, and shuffled out into the hallway. The smell of bacon and coffee drifted up the stairs, a cruel reminder of the world still turning without her.

Down in the kitchen, Brandan and Calista were seated at the table. The breakfast spread was impressive: scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, a stack of pancakes. No one had set a plate for her.

Brandan looked up as she entered the doorway. His eyes narrowed at her flushed face, but his expression held no concern, only annoyance.

"Don't even think about playing sick," he said, pointing a fork at her. "We're going to the clinic."

Kasie leaned against the doorframe, trying to keep the room from tilting. "Where?"

Calista set her coffee cup down. She folded her hands in her lap, her voice dripping with manufactured sorrow. "Kasie, I'm so sorry. It's my fault. Ever since the accident, my blood counts have been off. The doctor said my aplastic anemia might be acting up again."

She paused, biting her lower lip. It was a perfectly rehearsed gesture. "He suggested we do a bone marrow compatibility test. Just in case."

Kasie stared at her. The pieces clicked into place with a sickening thud. They wanted her to be a donor. They wanted to carve into her bones to fix the sister who had stolen her life.

"This is your chance to make things right," Brandan said, his voice hard. "The clinic has an opening for a preliminary compatibility screening this morning. If you're a potential match, we'll schedule the full biopsy. We're going."

A wave of nausea rolled through Kasie's stomach. It wasn't the fever; it was the sheer audacity of the demand. They were treating her like a spare parts repository.

"I'm sick, Brandan," Kasie said, her voice hoarse. "I need to rest. And you can't force me to undergo a medical procedure."

Brandan slammed his hand on the table. The dishes rattled. "You don't have a choice! You nearly killed her. You owe her this!"

He stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floor. He crossed the kitchen in two strides and grabbed Kasie's arm. His grip was bruising, his fingers digging into her bicep. He dragged her toward the back door.

"Let's go."

The drive to the clinic was a blur of gray skies and pain. Brandan drove, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Calista sat in the passenger seat, looking out the window with a tragic expression. Kasie was relegated to the back, her head resting against the cold glass.

Halfway there, Brandan pulled into a gas station. "I need coffee. Don't move."

He got out, leaving the engine running. The silence in the car was suffocating.

Kasie kept her eyes closed, trying to breathe through the fever.

"Are you feeling sorry for yourself?"

Kasie opened her eyes. Calista had turned around in her seat. The soft, vulnerable mask was gone. In its place was a cold, sharp smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"You really think this is unfair, don't you?" Calista whispered, her tone mocking. "Wake up, Kasie. From the day the Foremans took me in and sent me back here, you were always going to lose."

Kasie stared at her, stunned by the sudden shift. "What are you talking about?"

"Your Ivy League degree. Your research. Your husband." Calista ticked them off on her fingers. "Everything you had, I wanted. And now I have it."

She leaned closer, her eyes glittering. "Look at them. Brandan, Jefferson, Jaime. They love me. They think you came back to steal from me. They hate you."

"Why?" Kasie asked, the word barely a whisper. "Why are you doing this?"

Calista laughed, a soft, cruel sound. "Because I can't stand your face. You act like you deserve the world. Why you? Why did Clemence propose to you first? Why did you get the scholarship? You're nothing."

The gas station door chimed. Brandan stepped out, holding a steaming cup.

Calista's face transformed in an instant. The malice vanished, replaced by trembling lips and shining eyes. She turned back around, just as Brandan opened the driver's door.

"Brandan," she whimpered, her voice cracking. "Kasie is so angry. She... she said she hopes I die."

Brandan's eyes flashed in the rearview mirror, meeting Kasie's shocked gaze. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal, the car lurching forward. "You selfish bitch."

At the clinic, the humiliation was complete. Calista played her role to perfection, wincing as the needle went in for a simple blood draw, her frail body trembling. When it was over, she swayed dramatically, collapsing into Brandan's arms in a dead faint.

"Calista!" Brandan caught her, holding her tight. He looked up at Kasie, who was sitting pale and sweating in the waiting chair. "Look what you did! If she dies, I swear to God, I'll kill you myself!"

The nurses stared at Kasie with open disgust. The other patients looked away. Kasie sat there, the fever burning through her veins, realizing that in this world, Calista was the saint, and she was the demon. And there was no escape.

Kasie leaned against the wall of the upstairs hallway, her arm throbbing where the needle had been. The house was quiet, but the silence felt heavy, like the air before a storm. She just wanted to crawl into the storage closet and close the door.

She didn't make it.

Jefferson stepped out of his room, blocking her path. He was still in his police uniform, the heavy utility belt creaking as he moved. His face was red, a vein pulsing in his temple.

"What did you say to her?" he demanded, stepping closer. "Calista has been crying in her room since we got back."

Kasie closed her eyes, too tired to fight. "I didn't say anything, Jefferson."

The door to Calista's room cracked open. Her voice drifted out, thick with tears. "Jeff, please. Don't be mad at her. It's my fault. I shouldn't have asked..."

That was all it took. Jefferson's face twisted with rage. He grabbed Kasie by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her collarbones. "You cold-hearted bitch! She's sick because of you, and you can't even be decent to her?"

"Get off me!" Kasie shoved at his chest, but he was solid muscle. "You're all blind! She's playing you. She's not sick!"

The words hung in the air, a detonator in the tense hallway.

"Shut your mouth!" Jefferson roared. "Don't you dare talk about her like that!"

He let go of one shoulder and shoved her hard in the chest. It was meant to push her away, to assert dominance. But Kasie was weak. Her legs were unsteady, her fever making her dizzy. The force of the push sent her stumbling backward.

Her heel caught the top step.

Time slowed down. Kasie felt the sickening lurch of gravity taking over. Her arms windmilled, grasping at empty air. She saw Jefferson's eyes widen, a flash of shock cutting through his anger.

Then she was falling.

Her back hit the edge of the third step. The air rushed out of her lungs. She tumbled, a ragdoll bouncing down the wooden stairs. Her head cracked against the banister. Her arm twisted underneath her, a sharp, blinding pain shooting up to her shoulder.

She landed at the bottom in a heap, gasping, the taste of copper filling her mouth. The world was spinning, the edges of her vision turning black.

Jefferson stood at the top of the stairs, frozen. Calista peeked out of her door, her eyes wide, but not with fear. With calculation.

The front door swung open.

Clemence Foreman stepped inside, bringing a gust of cold air with him. He was wearing a charcoal overcoat that cost more than the entire house. In his hand was a shopping bag from a luxury boutique.

He stopped, his gaze falling on Kasie crumpled on the floor. She looked up at him, her vision blurry, her body screaming in agony. She waited for the concern, for the basic human instinct to help.

Upstairs, Calista spoke, her voice trembling. "Clemence! Oh god, she... she just fell! She just threw herself down the stairs!"

Jefferson found his voice. "She slipped. She was yelling and she just slipped."

Clemence looked at Kasie. His blue eyes were devoid of any warmth. They weren't the eyes of a man seeing his injured wife; they were the eyes of a man looking at an insect on the sidewalk.

He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Your tricks are getting pathetic, Kasie."

He stepped over her legs, not bothering to crouch down. "Hurting yourself for attention? Did you think breaking your arm would make me look at you?"

He shook his head, a sneer curling his lip. "It's sad, really. You're pathetic."

He walked past her, heading up the stairs. He reached the landing and pulled Calista into his arms, stroking her hair. "I'm here. It's okay. I've got you."

Kasie lay on the cold linoleum, the sound of Clemence's comforting murmurs drifting down the stairs. The pain in her arm was nothing compared to the hollow ache in her chest. She closed her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek.

She laughed, a broken, silent sound. Nobody was coming. Nobody cared.