Chapter 2

Rachel was the daughter of Dad's old partner from the force. During a raid years ago, her father was tragically killed in the line of duty, and Dad had adopted her.

The way Rachel looked at me was packed with hostility and suspicion, as if I were a parasite intruding on her life.

With tear-streaked eyes, she pointed a finger at me and screamed, "You stole my dad! You killed him!"

I froze, completely at a loss for how to respond.

Seeing this, Mom rushed over, wrapped Rachel in a tight hug, and gently whispered comforts into her ear.

From that day forward, Mom blamed every single tragedy on me.

Detective Miller walked over and asked Mom, "What's the situation with the body?"

Miller was Dad's closest friend from the precinct.

Mom rubbed her temples and said, "Female, roughly twenty years old. Preliminary cause of death is a severed windpipe caused by a sharp weapon. She suffered prolonged torture before she died."

Miller lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and slowly blew the smoke out into the warm air. "Damn. We need to close this before the media blows it up," he said grimly.

He turned back to Mom. "The killer is still out there. It's not safe. Don't let Rachel or Emma wander out at night."

Mom waved a hand dismissively. "I don't need to worry about Rachel. She's a good girl, always listens to me." Then, her face contorted in disgust. "As for Emma... I couldn't care less. I can't control her anyway."

Miller sighed, hesitating for a second before saying, "Emma is your biological daughter, after all. Go a little easier on her."

Mom shook her head. "You don't understand, Miller. She's the reason her father is dead. If only she'd come home and behave herself. Ever since she moved in, this house hasn't known peace for a single day. When she isn't picking fights with Rachel, she's pulling some other spiteful stunt." Just mentioning me filled Mom with bitter resentment. "Today is Rachel's birthday. Rachel has been asking for her for days, calling her non-stop. And what does Emma do? Ignores every text, declines every call. That's what you get when you don't raise them yourself. For all I know, she's probably dead in a ditch somewhere."

Floating in the air, I listened to her bitter complaints without a ripple of emotion.

For some reason, ever since I became a ghost, all those agonizing feelings had vanished.

Under the pale fluorescent lights of the autopsy room, Mom stood in her white lab coat and rubber gloves. Her brow was knitted tight, and a complex look clouded her eyes as she stared at my mangled body laid out on the metal table.

Her gaze was filled with unprecedented pity and heartbreak.

In my entire life, she had never once looked at me like that.

Her eyes slowly shifted, eventually landing on my lower waist. There was a horrifying, jagged scar there.

It was from a fight with Rachel shortly after I had moved in.

That day, Mom had just finished cooking. She gently stroked Rachel's hair, telling her to eat well and stay safe on her way to school.

Rachel had put on her usual obedient, sweet act in front of Mom. But the second Mom turned her back, Rachel rolled her eyes in sheer disgust, violently wiped the spot Mom had touched, and muttered under her breath, "Disgusting bitch."

Fury instantly ignited inside me. I lunged forward and grabbed Rachel by the hair.

In the chaotic struggle, a ceramic bowl shattered on the floor. Rachel grabbed a sharp shard and viciously dragged it across my waist.

I watched the blood gush out in torrents. The pain took my breath away.

Meanwhile, Rachel burst into tears and called Mom.

The moment the call ended, her tears vanished into thin air. She casually sat down on the sofa, scrolling through her phone as if nothing had happened.

I, on the other hand, lost so much blood that my vision blurred, and I sank into pitch-black darkness.

When I finally woke up, I was in a hospital bed.

The first thing that greeted me was a violent slap across the face from Mom. She roared at me, "How could you be so wicked?! Just because Rachel took one extra egg, you butchered her like this?!"

Dazed, I looked over at Rachel, only then noticing the small band-aid plastered on her arm.

My soul hovered quietly above, watching Mom frown as she meticulously examined that very scar.

After inspecting it, she said calmly to her assistant, "This is an old scar. It wasn't left by the killer."

Right then, Mom's phone rang. It was Rachel.