I was taken aback at first, but I quickly understood. The explosion had been really loud, so the neighbors must have heard it and called the police.

Was my family about to find out I was dead?

Dad hung up the phone, and I watched my parents' expressions closely, hoping to see some hint of concern over the news.

I was disappointed.

Mom just looked annoyed, complaining, "I told the staff to double-check everything before we left. How could there be a gas leak? What is Frida playing at now? She's always sneaking around. She must've broken out of the basement to mess up Calla's birthday again."

Dad, frowning, nodded in agreement. "She hasn't changed one bit. Forget her. Let's just enjoy our time with Calla and deal with this when we get back."

I had imagined many different scenarios, but never that they would simply ignore the police's call.

The next morning, my family went on with their vacation as though nothing had happened. They even blocked unknown numbers from reaching their phones. Calla enjoyed herself immensely, though Harvey seemed a little distracted, checking his phone quite frequently.

Curious, I glanced over to see what Harvey was looking at, which turned out to be our text chat. The chat was filled with my messages, mostly asking how he was.

All my questions had gone unanswered.

Last night, I sent Harvey a ton of messages begging him to let me out. His only reply had been: [Just stay put until we get back. Then, apologize to Calla and I'll let you out.]

I wondered why he was reading our chat now.

Harvey typed something, hesitated a little, and then hit the send button. And I read his text. He asked what I was doing and why I was not replying.

I almost wanted to laugh. Harvey had ignored me so many times, and now that I couldn't reply, he was waiting for me. Maybe he cared for me, just a tiny bit, but I could no longer answer him.

"Is there something that interesting on your phone, Harvey?" Calla asked pointedly, clearly annoyed at his distraction. "You promised to spend time with me, but you're always on your phone."

At the sound of his precious little sister's voice, Harvey immediately locked his phone and put it away, ready to accompany Calla. Only Calla could ever make the arrogant Harvey act submissive and docile.

I suddenly remembered something from when I first came home. I had been carrying a heavy box filled with my old things from the orphanage—worn picture books, diaries, little knickknacks—I had collected over the years. Struggling with the weight, I asked Harvey to help me. But he just gave me a disgusted look and scanned me from head to toe with disdain.

"I'm not touching your filthy stuff," he spat.

I wanted to explain that my things were not dirty, but then Calla came in, complaining that she had stepped in a puddle. Without a second thought, Harvey crouched down to help her remove her shoes. I knew then that it was not my things he despised.

It was me he despised.

Harvey was not my brother, not really. Just like my parents, he had always belonged to Calla.