When my mother chose to save my sister and leave me to suffocate in our burning house, she didn't know I would survive to balance the ledger.

The next morning, walking into the county precinct on crutches felt like walking onto a battlefield where I finally held the high ground.

As Marcus and I pushed through the double glass doors, flashbulbs immediately blinded us. Local reporters, tipped off by police scanners, swarmed the lobby.

“Miss Calloway! Is it true your parents set the fire?”

“Did they leave you in the house on purpose?”

“No comment at this time,” Marcus said smoothly, shielding my shoulder with his jacket and guiding me past the media horde toward the inner sliding doors.

Inside the precinct’s intake corridor, the atmosphere was sterile and tense.

And there they were.

Frank, Miriam, and Diane were sitting on a metal bench outside the holding cells.

Miriam looked like a ghost. Her expensive cardigan was rumpled, her makeup smeared from genuine, unscripted tears. Diane was pacing back and forth, wringing her hands and muttering under her breath, while Frank sat staring at the linoleum floor with his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were bone-white.

When my crutches clicked against the floor, all three heads snapped up.

Diane stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes widened with pure, unfiltered venom. “You!” she shrieked, lunging forward before two county deputies grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back against the bench. “You bitch! You’re actually doing this to your own family? Because of a little smoke? You always had to ruin everything for me!”

“Diane, shut up!” Frank roared, his face crimson as he glared at his favorite daughter for a split second before turning his bloodshot eyes toward me.

He stood up, walking toward me with that heavy, imposing stride he had used to intimidate me since I was a child. But for the first time in my life, I didn't shrink back. I stood my ground, leaning on my crutches, looking him straight in the eye.

“Josephine,” Frank said, his voice dropping into a low, trembling whisper meant only for me. “We raised you. We put a roof over your head. We fed you. And you’re going to send your own mother and father to prison over a paper dispute?”

“You didn’t raise me, Dad,” I replied softly, my voice carrying clearly down the silent corridor. “You used me. And on the night of the fire, when Mom looked at me and said, ‘We can’t risk losing our daughter,’ she made her choice. She chose Diane. She chose the money. She chose the insurance fraud.”

Miriam burst into loud, ugly sobs, burying her face in her hands. “Jo... please! I’m your mother! Think of all the Christmases, all the birthdays—”

“My birthday is next month, Miriam,” I interrupted, stepping past them toward the interrogation rooms. “Don't send a card. You won't have a mailing address.”

Detective Miller stepped out from the doorway of Room 3, holding a clipboard. He looked at me, then at the weeping Calloways.

“Miss Calloway? We’re ready for your deposition. Right this way.”