Chapter 1

On the very first day the Vance family brought me back, their fake heiress threw herself down the grand staircase.

She lay sprawled at the bottom, her forehead dripping with blood.

Conveniently, the house’s security cameras had just stopped working.

Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at me, playing the pathetic victim. "Valerie, if you hate me that much, I can just leave."

"Why did you have to push me?"

My biological mother rushed over, holding her and sobbing hysterically.

My biological father and brother glared daggers at me. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?!"

Calmly, I pulled a pair of nitrile gloves from my pocket, snapped them onto my hands, and crouched down in front of Chloe.

"If an adult tumbles down eighteen hardwood steps, the bony prominences—shoulders, elbows, hips, and knees—will show significant blunt-force contusions."

"Yet you only have a single, clean-edged, superficial cut across your forehead."

I dabbed a bit of the blood from her cheek onto my fingertip and rubbed it.

"The hue is far too bright. The coagulation rate doesn't match the timeline of the alleged fall. And it carries the distinct odor of poultry blood."

"This is chicken blood."

The color drained from everyone's faces.

My expression didn't shift an inch.

"I'm top of my class in Forensic Science and Criminalistics at the Police Academy. Any more questions?"

My name is Valerie Vance.

Twenty-two years ago, I was born in the maternity ward of Central Hospital.

Someone stole me from my bassinet and dumped me near the long-distance bus terminal.

The people who found me were a couple driving home from an active police call.

My adoptive father was a homicide detective; my adoptive mother was a forensic pathologist.

While other kids listened to fairy tales before bed, I fell asleep to cold case files my dad had closed.

When I was five, he taught me to always locate the emergency exits first whenever I entered a room.

When I was seven, he taught me never to touch trace evidence at a crime scene.

When I was nine, my mom taught me that wounds preserve the shape of the weapon, blood spatter records the angle of force, and while humans lie, physical evidence never has a personal agenda.

When I was sixteen, I ran into a mugger with a switchblade on my walk home from school.

I blocked the first slash with my backpack, kicked the knife out of his grip, chased him down two blocks, and cornered him right inside the local precinct.

My dad picked me up and gave me the silent treatment the entire night.

The next morning, he signed me up for private mixed martial arts classes.

"I know I can’t stop you from playing hero," he told me bluntly.

"So the least you can do is learn how to come back in one piece."

Years later, the Vance family’s butler tracked me down and handed me an embossed business card:

"Miss Valerie, Mrs. Vance wants you to come home."

"You were switched at birth. Mr. Vance passed away years ago, but Mrs. Vance has been searching for you ever since."

My adoptive dad handed me his old tactical watch from his field days.

The strap was worn raw, but inside, he had secretly installed a real-time GPS tracker and an emergency distress beacon.

"You can go," he said quietly.

"But if they disrespect you, you don't take it lying down."

"Your mother has a weak heart. She can't handle waiting until tomorrow to find out someone gave you hell."

My mom glared at him.

"Whose heart is weak?"

My dad ignored her and straightened my collar with a steady hand.

"You're not going there to beg for their love. You're going to find out what really happened twenty-two years ago."

"The second you feel uncomfortable, you walk out and come straight home."

Three hours later, the town car pulled up in front of the Vance estate.

No one was outside to greet me.

The butler nervously explained that Chloe had suddenly felt faint and chest pain, so the entire family was upstairs keeping her company.

I didn't care.

The first thing I did when I stepped out of the car was map the perimeter.

One front entrance, two side doors.

A blind spot on the west side of the garden wall. The second-floor terrace offered a direct, unobstructed line of sight into the backyard.

The security camera at the landing of the main staircase had its indicator light off. Fresh scratch marks ringed the cable port—it had been violently unplugged just minutes ago.

I said nothing. I quietly clicked the digital voice recorder in my pocket to ON.

As I reached the second floor, a faint scent of blood hit my nose.

It wasn't human. It was thicker, muskier. Avian.

The master bedroom door stood wide open.

Chloe was sitting by the edge of the king-sized bed in an ethereal white dress, looking pale and fragile, her eyes red-rimmed.

My biological mother held both of her hands tightly.

Sitting beside them was my biological older brother, Ethan Vance.

The three of them looked like a flawless, heartwarming family portrait.

Standing in the doorway, I looked like an unwanted stranger who had accidentally photobombed their shot.

Eleanor Vance was the first to notice me. She froze for a few seconds. "You're... Valerie?"

"Yes."

Her eyes dropped to my worn sneakers and practical utility jacket. Her expression hardened with subtle distaste.

No hug. No questions about how I had survived.

The first words out of her mouth were: "Chloe has a delicate condition. Now that you're back, do not upset her."

I looked straight at Chloe.

Her breathing was completely steady. Her lip color was healthy and pink. There was no cyanosis around her fingernails from oxygen deprivation, nor was she reflexively clutching her chest the way people actually experiencing cardiac discomfort do.

Chloe stood up and took a frail step toward me.

"Valerie, are you mad at me?"

"I know... I took the life that belonged to you."

"If you don't want me here, I can pack my bags and move out right now."