Chapter 4

The day after Mom's funeral, I had to go back to school. Social services said I needed to maintain "normal routines" while they figured out what to do with me.

Normal. Like anything about my life was normal anymore.

Madison was waiting by my locker, surrounded by her usual crowd. When she saw me, her face arranged itself into perfect sympathy.

"Scarlett! How are you holding up? We've all been so worried."

Worried. Right.

"I'm fine," I managed.

"You're so brave," she said loud enough for everyone to hear. "Losing a parent so young... I can't imagine."

You can't imagine because you killed her.

In chemistry class, Madison somehow got herself assigned as my lab partner. Ms. Peterson was writing instructions on the board when Madison picked up the beaker of hydrochloric acid.

"This is going to be fun," she whispered.

Before I could react, she tilted it toward me. The acid splashed across my left hand and wrist.

The pain was like being branded with white-hot metal. I couldn't even scream—just a strangled gasp.

"Oh my God, Scarlett!" Madison's voice was pure horror. "Ms. Peterson! There's been an accident!"

Through the agony, I heard chairs scraping, people shouting. Ms. Peterson pulled me toward the wash station, flooding my hand with water while the acid ate through my skin.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"I don't know!" Madison was crying now. "She was reaching for something and knocked it over! She's been so distracted since her mom died."

Using Mom's death to explain away what she did to me.

The nurse came, then paramedics. My hand looked like raw meat where the acid had burned away layers of skin.

"It was an accident," Madison told them, voice shaking with concern. "She's just not herself lately."

Even through the pain medication, I wanted to scream the truth. But who would believe me?

The chemical burn took a week to heal, leaving angry red scars across my hand. I wore bandages constantly, and even writing became torture.

Two days before prom, Madison found me in the parking lot after school. The lot was empty—everyone else had left.

"Scarlett! Wait up!"

I turned to see her jogging toward me, something glinting in her hand. A box cutter, blade extended.

Run. I need to run.

But my feet felt like lead.

"I wanted to give you something," she said sweetly. "A graduation present."

"Madison, please—"

"Please what? Please don't give you what you deserve?"

She moved faster than I thought possible. I felt the sharp bite of metal across my left cheek, then warm blood running down my face.

I screamed—a sound I didn't know I could make.

"There," she said, stepping back to admire her work. "Now everyone will see exactly what you are."

The cut ran from my ear to the corner of my mouth. Blood was everywhere.

"You should get that looked at," she said casually, retracting the blade. "Wouldn't want it to get infected."

Then she walked away like nothing had happened.

Twelve stitches. That's what the ER doctor said as he cleaned the wound.

"This is going to scar," he told me quietly. "I'm sorry."

A scar. On my face. Forever.

My phone buzzed constantly while I waited. Tyler.

"Babe, where are you? Prom is tomorrow!"

"I got my tux and everything."

"Scarlett? People are saying you're in the hospital?"

I called him from the hospital phone.

"Scarlett! Jesus, where have you been?"

"Tyler, I'm at the hospital. Something happened."

"The hospital? Are you okay?"

"About prom tomorrow. I can't go. I have stitches on my face."

Silence. Long, awful silence.

"Stitches? What kind of stitches?"

"Madison cut me with a box cutter."

"Cut you? That's insane. Why would she do that?"

Finally. Someone believes me.

"She's been doing this to me all year—"

"Wait, but prom is tomorrow. Can't you just use makeup or something?"

My heart sank. Use makeup. To cover twelve stitches.

"Tyler, it's not something makeup can fix."

"But I already bought the tickets. And my parents are expecting to meet you."

His tickets. His parents.

"I can't."

"You can't, or you won't? Maybe you're being dramatic."

Dramatic. The word hit like a slap.

"That's not—"

"You know what? Forget it. I'll go alone."

The line went dead.

Except he didn't go alone.

Chelsea's Instagram story showed Tyler in his black tux, standing next to Madison in silver. They looked perfect together.

The caption: "When your original date bails, upgrade! 💕"

Bails. Like I'd chosen this.

I called him the next morning.

"Scarlett? Look, I can explain—"

"You took her to prom."

"You said you couldn't go! What was I supposed to do?"

"Stand by me."

"I can't be seen with you like this. My football scholarship... my future depends on my image."

My image. My ruined face was bad for his image.

"So that's it?"

"Maybe when you heal up—"

"Don't." I hung up and blocked his number.

The message was clear. Even Tyler couldn't love me like this.

Social services found me a foster family in California. Donna and Mike Garcia—no kids of their own, experienced with trauma cases.

"A fresh start," Mrs. Patterson called it.

Fresh start. Three thousand miles from everything.

The morning I left, Madison was waiting by the school entrance like she'd known I'd come clean out my locker.

"Leaving us so soon?" she called sweetly.

I kept walking, my life stuffed into three garbage bags.

"California! How exciting. A whole new start."

I stopped, turned to face her one last time.

"You know," she continued, "I almost feel bad about how things ended. But you brought this on yourself by thinking you were good enough to exist in the same space as me."

She gestured at my scarred face.

"But look how it worked out! You get a fresh start, and I get to finish senior year without looking at... well, you know."

I stared at her, memorizing every detail of her smug expression.

"Finally, the trash is taking itself out," she added with a laugh.

I walked away without a word.

But as I loaded my bags into the Garcias' car, I made myself a promise.

This isn't over, Madison Blackwell. This is just the beginning.

The Garcia house in San Diego was nothing like the trailer park. Clean white walls, actual furniture that matched, and a kitchen that didn't smell like cigarettes from the neighbors.

But it felt like a trap.

What if they change their minds? What if I break something and they send me back?