Chapter 3

"Mom, they're trying to pass us!"

But they weren't passing. They were playing some twisted game, speeding up when Mom tried to get ahead, slowing down when she tried to fall back. Toying with us like we were nothing.

They're going to kill us. They're actually going to kill us.

"What are they doing?" Mom's voice was tight with fear now, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.

The black car swerved toward us suddenly, and Mom had to jerk the wheel hard to the right to avoid being hit.

We were heading straight for the trees.

"Hold on, Scarlett!"

The world went silent for just a moment. Then everything exploded into twisted metal and shattering glass and pain.

When I came to, Mom was slumped over the steering wheel. There was blood trickling down her forehead, but her eyes were open. She was alive.

Thank God, she's alive. She's going to be okay.

"Mom!" I shook her shoulder gently. "Mom, we need to get help!"

Her eyes found mine, but they looked so tired. So far away.

"Scarlett," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Don't let them break you. You're going to be something special."

No. No, don't talk like that. You're going to be fine.

But even as I held her hand and begged her to stay awake, I could feel her slipping away from me.

I woke up in a hospital bed with the worst headache of my life. A police officer was sitting beside me, looking uncomfortable.

"Miss Murphy? I'm Officer Davis. Can you tell me what you remember about the accident?"

Accident. The word hit me like a punch to the gut.

"It wasn't an accident," I said, my voice hoarse from crying. "Madison Blackwell was in that car. They forced us off the road on purpose."

Officer Davis looked skeptical. "The driver of the other vehicle says they were simply passing when your mother lost control."

Of course that's what they said.

"That's not what happened!" My voice cracked. "They were playing games with us, swerving—"

"Miss Murphy," he interrupted gently, "you suffered a head injury. Sometimes trauma can affect our memory of events."

He doesn't believe me. Just like Madison said—no one's ever going to believe me.

Before I could argue anymore, a man in an expensive suit walked in. Everything about him screamed money—from his perfect haircut to his gold watch.

"Officer Davis? I'm the Blackwell family attorney. We'd like to handle this matter privately, for everyone involved."

I watched the officer's entire demeanor change. Suddenly he was more respectful, more careful.

Money talks. Even here, even now.

"Of course, sir. Miss Murphy, the Blackwell family wants to express their deepest condolences and provide compensation for your loss."

The lawyer placed a check on my bedside table. More money than Mom and I had ever seen in our entire lives combined.

"This should cover all expenses and help with your future," he said smoothly. "I'm sure we can all agree that pursuing this further would only cause more unnecessary pain."

They killed my mom and now they want to buy their way out of it.

But what choice did I have? I was sixteen, alone, and everyone was acting like this was just some tragic accident that had nothing to do with Madison Blackwell.

Mom's gone. She's really gone, and there's nothing I can do about it.

The funeral was small and quiet. Just me, a few people from Mom's work, and some neighbors from the trailer park. I'd used the Blackwell money to buy the cheapest casket I could find, but even touching that money made me feel sick.

Blood money. Every dollar of it.

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

I looked up through my tears to see Madison standing there in a black dress that probably cost more than my mom's entire funeral. She had tears in her eyes too—perfect, photogenic tears.

Chelsea was right behind her with her phone out, of course.

"Your mom was such a sweet woman," Madison continued, reaching out like she was going to touch me.

I jerked away from her so fast I almost fell.

"Don't you dare touch me."

"I know you're hurting," she said, loud enough for everyone around us to hear. "But I want you to know I'm here for you. We all are."

We all are. Like she hadn't spent weeks destroying my life. Like she hadn't just killed my mother.

I can't do this. I can't stand here and let her pretend to care.

But I had to. Because if I made a scene, if I accused her, who would believe me? The police certainly hadn't.

Two hours later, I saw the Instagram post. Madison at the funeral, looking appropriately sad, with the caption: "Sometimes we have to be there for people, even when it's hard. RIP Mrs. Murphy ❤️ #bekind #grief #strongfriends"

It already had over a hundred likes.

She's using my mom's death for social media clout.

I sat on the floor of our empty trailer that night, surrounded by cardboard boxes and the lingering smell of Mom's vanilla perfume.

This is it. This is my life now. Alone.

Tomorrow I'd have to go back to school and face all of them again. Face the stares, the whispers, the fake sympathy. Knowing that they'd won. Knowing that Mom was gone and I couldn't do anything about it.

My phone buzzed with a text from Tyler: "Hey babe, haven't seen you in a few days. You still want to go to prom together? It's only two weeks away."

Prom. The word felt like it belonged to someone else's life. Two weeks ago, I'd been excited about it. Now the thought of pretending to be happy, of smiling and dancing while my mom lay cold in the ground, made me want to throw up.