They’d stolen my identity.
Emily didn’t panic. She smiled, sharp and calm. “Good,” she said. “Now it’s criminal.”
They lost everything because they tried to steal me.
A month later, a handwritten note appeared in our mailbox. An apology. A plea.
Emily burned it over the stove and washed the ashes down the sink.
Life grew peaceful. Noah finished his treehouse. We planned trips we’d never taken because there was always someone else’s emergency.
Six months later, a letter arrived from jail. Olivia tried to bargain, offering evidence against our parents in exchange for bail money.
Emily forwarded it to the prosecutor and said nothing more.
Sometimes I still think about that photo in Tahiti. The smiles. The laughter.
They mocked a clown.
