Chapter 5

Christine arrived the next day.

She didn't bring flowers. She brought a cease-and-desist letter and a voice recorder.

Mom blocked the doorway, forcing a polite smile.

"Christine, Natasha is not feeling well lately. She's not fit to receive visitors."

Christine stared at her coldly.

"I'm not here to see Natasha."

"I'm here to ask about Emma."

Mom's smile instantly stiffened.

Christine opened her phone, showing a screenshot of the backstage footage from the night of the competition.

Though the video was blurry, it clearly showed the dancer's right ankle buckling outward upon landing.

"Natasha doesn't have an old injury in her right ankle," Christine said. "But Emma does."

Mom’s face went cold. "What are you implying?"

"I am implying that I suspect you have been running a long-term identity fraud scheme in these competitions."

Dad walked out of the living room. "Christine, watch your mouth."

Christine didn't back down.

"I have already petitioned the committee to retrieve the full backstage security footage."

Dad smiled faintly.

"Feel free to try."

"But I heard there was a power surge backstage that night, and most of the video files were corrupted."

Christine's expression tightened.

Dad stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"You have your own dance company, and you have students."

"Slandering an international champion won't do you any good."

Christine glared at him. "Do you really think the dead leave no evidence?"

Dad remained silent, but Mom let out a cold sneer.

"Of course the dead don't."

"Only the living have voices. Only the living make evidence."

A muffled banging noise came from upstairs. Natasha was throwing herself against her bedroom door.

"Christine!"

"The basement! They destroyed the evidence in the basement!"

Dad's face darkened instantly. He turned to head upstairs.

Christine suddenly raised her voice:

"Natasha! I hear you!"

"And I will remember Emma's name!"

Those words made Natasha quiet down, and they made me want to cry.

It turned out that having someone remember your name was such a difficult thing.

After Christine left, Dad called a crew to tear down the basement that very night.

The mirrors were carted away, the barres were unscrewed, and the floorboards were pried up.

My blood stains, the training schedules, and my old knee pads were all stuffed into black trash bags.

Mom stood by, urging them, "Hurry up."

"The media is coming tomorrow morning to film Natasha's recovery documentary."

Dad frowned. "We can't keep the ashes either."

Natasha stood at the top of the stairs, her face losing all color.

"You promised you would let her have a proper burial."

Mom avoided her gaze.

Dad said:

"Keeping them is a liability."

"Scatter them. Keep it clean."

Natasha rushed down the stairs to grab the urn.

Dad shoved her away.

She crashed against the wall, wincing in pain, but she desperately locked her hands around the cuff of his pants.

"Don't touch her."

Dad looked down at her. There was no fatherly affection in his eyes—only disgust.

"If you keep fighting me, I will make sure she doesn't even have a place to rest."

Natasha’s grip slowly loosened.

She watched Dad lock my cremation urn inside the wall safe.

The electronic lock clicked shut.

Dad said, "We will dispose of it after the award ceremony."

My ashes had become their final hostage.

Late that night, Natasha quietly opened the sealed bag containing my pointe shoes.

She clutched them to her chest, sobbing for hours. Then, she suddenly stopped.

When her fingers brushed the heel of the left shoe, she paused.

Those shoes were never used on stage again; I had hidden them in the deepest corner of the basement.

I had gathered all my secret videos from my old phone, camera cards, and the basement computer.

Before the finals, I had copied everything onto a micro SD card, sealed it in a waterproof capsule, stuffed it into the hollow heel of my left pointe shoe, and hand-stitched it shut with thick thread.

Because I knew those shoes were the only things my parents would never try to sell, exhibit, or use to promote Natasha's glory.

Natasha used to help me mend my shoes when we were kids.

She could feel the difference immediately.

At that moment, her eyes turned fiercely red.

"Emma... you left a way out after all."