The box felt cold in my hands, labeled in handwriting I didn’t recognize: For Joyce, when she comes home. Inside, a silver bracelet—engraved with my name and a date I wasn’t born on. Before I could process it, footsteps echoed upstairs. Then Mom’s voice, tight with accusation: “Joyce, why is your drawer open?”

I hadn’t touched it. But the stolen cash from Dad’s study was tucked beneath my mattress now, wrapped in the same floral tissue from Regina’s vanity. She stood behind Mom, eyes wide, whispering, “I told you she wasn’t safe.”

The police report would say I broke curfew, stole money, and lied about it. But right then, all I saw was the camera light blinking faintly from the smoke detector—pointed straight at my bed.