Chapter 3

The next day, videos of the competition were all over YouTube.

The top comments under the videos were all expressing pity for Natasha:

"A prodigy’s night of glory ruined by her mentally unstable twin sister who stole her costume."

"Natasha's breakdown on stage was clearly a PTSD response."

"The worst pain is being hurt by your own family."

My face in the videos was heavily blurred, but my name was dragged through the mud in every comment section.

"Emma is so evil. Was she so jealous of Natasha that she had to steal her identity?"

"I heard she had mental issues since childhood. Her parents did their best raising her. They are saints."

"Natasha is so unlucky. Her injury flared up, and then her sister ruined her career."

Mom scrolled through the comments, letting out a sigh of relief.

"The public is sensible after all."

Natasha sat at the dining table. The bowl of oatmeal in front of her had already gone completely cold.

She suddenly asked, "Where did those medical records come from?"

Dad threw a stack of documents onto the table. "Don't worry about it."

Natasha picked them up and flipped through them.

Age ten: Personality disorder.

Age twelve: Aggressive tendencies.

Age fifteen: Delusional desire to replace Natasha.

Age eighteen: Severe mental instability, long-term custody recommended.

Every page was stamped and signed by a doctor.

But I had never been to those hospitals. The only clinic I ever visited was orthopedics.

Because of fluid in my knees, torn ankle ligaments, back spasms, and my right foot that had never properly healed after the car crash when I was seven.

Natasha flipped to the end and suddenly stopped.

An old X-ray folder had been removed, leaving only the empty manila envelope.

On the cover, it read: Emma, Age 7, Shattered Right Ankle.

Natasha stared at those words, her fingers tightening.

"Where is this X-ray?"

Mom’s expression shifted. "Lost it a long time ago."

Natasha looked up. "Why is this the only one that's lost?"

Dad said coldly, "Natasha, that is none of your concern right now."

Mom shoved a script in front of her. "We are recording a statement video this afternoon. Read exactly what is written here."

Natasha looked at the first line, and her hands began to tremble.

"Emma had been mentally unstable for a long time. On the day of the event, she stole my costume and snuck onto the stage, leading to the tragic accident."

She kept reading.

"In my state of extreme shock and grief, I mistook her toxic, pathological obsession with me for family coercion."

"Please do not blame my parents. They are the ones hurting the most."

Natasha laughed, though tears streamed down her face. "You two are disgusting."

Dad raised his hand to strike her.

This time, Natasha didn't dodge. Instead, she leaned into his hand.

"Do it. Slap me hard. Make sure it's swollen so the media can get a clear shot of it this afternoon."

Dad's hand stopped in mid-air. Mom looked incredibly uncomfortable.

"Natasha, do you really want to fight us?"

Natasha glared at them. "I want to hold a funeral for Emma."

"Absolutely not," Mom refused instantly.

"The media is watching us. If we hold a funeral, everyone will start asking questions."

"Asking what?" Natasha's voice was freezing.

"Asking why the dead one wasn't me?"

Silence fell over the dining room like a tomb.

Dad threw a sealed plastic bag onto the table.

Inside were my old pointe shoes from the stage.

The satin was worn through at the toes, and the ribbons were stained with dried, dark blood.

"Emma's things are all in here," Dad said.

"If you cooperate, we will give her a quiet, clean memorial."

"If you don't, these things, along with her ashes, will be dumped in the trash."

Natasha reached out to grab the shoes.

But Dad pressed his hand flat over the bag. "Record the video first."

At three in the afternoon, the camera turned on.

Natasha wore a plain white sweater, her face completely pale.

Mom stood behind the camera, holding up the script.

Dad stood beside her, clutching my pointe shoes in his hand.

Natasha stared at the lens for a long time.

So long that Mom muttered impatiently, "Speak."

Natasha finally opened her mouth.

"I am Natasha."

"The girl who died on stage last night was my twin sister, Emma."

Our parents' faces twisted instantly.

Natasha continued:

"She wasn't crazy."

"And she didn't steal my identity."

"She—"

Dad slammed the power strip off, and the screen cut to black.

What they didn't know was that before the recording, Natasha had used an old phone hidden in her sleeve to log into my burner account and start a live stream.

So, those twelve seconds still made it to the internet.

It wasn't on Natasha's verified account.

It was on a burner account I had helped her register three years ago, linked to an old email our parents knew nothing about.

I had once written the password at the very bottom of her notes app, hidden under a childish title:

For when you want to tell the truth.

Back then, she had asked me why I made it.

I told her, "Because one day, you'll want to run away."

She hadn't answered me then.

But she remembered.

Unfortunately, this time, she still didn't get to finish her sentence.