Chapter 1
The whole town called me a monster when I got out of prison—until they saw me beat my stepfather Frank senseless on our front porch.
I'd been home three days.
Three days of people crossing the street when they saw me coming.
Three days of whispers and stares.
Three days of biting my tongue and keeping my head down.
I was walking home from the grocery store when I heard the screaming.
It was Ethan.
My little brother.
Fourteen years old.
I ran.
Frank was on the porch, holding Ethan by the collar of his shirt.
Ethan's face was already swelling.
There was blood on his lip.
"You little liar!" Frank roared, raising his fist again. "I told you to stay out of my things!"
I dropped the grocery bags.
Cans rolled everywhere.
I didn't care.
I crossed the yard in three strides and tackled Frank off the porch.
We hit the grass hard.
I punched him.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I didn't stop until neighbors started pulling me off.
"Get off him! You're killing him!" someone screamed.
I stood up, breathing hard, my knuckles raw.
The whole neighborhood was there.
Watching.
Judging.
"There's the monster," someone muttered. "Just like we thought."
"Someone call the sheriff!"
"Animal!"
I ignored them.
I knelt down next to Ethan.
He was crying, holding his face.
"Are you okay?" I whispered.
He looked at me.
Then he looked at Frank, who was groaning on the ground.
And then he said something that made the whole yard go silent.
"He did it," Ethan sobbed. "Frank did the robbery. The one you went to prison for."
The whispers stopped.
Frank froze mid-groan.
"I saw him," Ethan said, his voice getting stronger. "That night. I was up late. I saw him come home with the money. I saw him hide it. And then he called the police and told them it was you."
I stared at my little brother.
Eight years.
I'd lost eight years of my life for something I didn't do.
And Frank had been living in my house, raising my brother, this whole time.
Frank tried to sit up.
"The kid's lying," he spat. "He's scared. He doesn't know what he's saying."
But Ethan was already reaching into his pocket.
He pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper.
It was a receipt.
From the pawn shop.
Dated the day after the robbery.
With Frank's signature.
And the serial number of the watch that had been stolen.
The same watch the police said I'd pawned.
The same watch that put me away for eight years.
The sheriff pulled up just then.
He got out of his car, looking at the scene.
Frank saw him and started yelling.
"Sheriff! Arrest him! He attacked me! He's a danger to everyone!"
The sheriff looked at Frank.
Then he looked at me.
Then he looked at Ethan, holding out that crumpled receipt.
And he didn't reach for me.
He reached for Frank.
But that wasn't the end of it.
Because Ethan was pulling something else out of his pocket.
May you like
A small USB drive.
"I found it in his toolbox last week," Ethan whispered. "It's labeled 'insurance.' I didn't dare open it until now."
