He brought me home despite my mother's protests.
I slept in the smallest guest room and ate quietly at the kitchen table.
Daisy was afraid of me.
My mother never left her alone with me.
Every time Daisy cried, my mother looked at me first.
I understood why.
I had helped take her daughter.
I didn't know any better.
I was only six.
But my mother didn't care.
To her, I wasn't the baby she had lost.
I was a child raised by criminals.
Then one night, I overheard her crying.
“I searched for Amelia for six years,” she told my father. “I saw dead children. I visited morgues. I buried an empty coffin.”
My father answered quietly.
“She survived.”
My mother whispered:
“But what if she isn't Amelia anymore?”
Days later, Daisy disappeared again.
The front door was open.
A note was left behind.
BRING THE OLDER GIRL TO THE OLD WAREHOUSE.
My mother looked directly at me.
And for the first time, I knew she believed I was responsible.
CHAPTER 3: THE GIRL WHO CAME HOME TWICE
My mother called the police.
But I ran first.
I knew the warehouse.