Chapter 3

"What are you guys gossiping about?" Sebastian walked over, carrying a grocery basket.

He smiled warmly. "Don't talk about the poor boy behind his back. Life hasn't been easy for him. We should help him out as much as we can."

One neighbor frowned and spoke up.

"I’m not getting anywhere near him. The other day, my grandson saw him standing alone in the yard and tried to give him a lollipop."

"Mark literally shoved my grandson to the ground and screamed profanities at him. The kid is mentally unstable!"

Sebastian’s smile faded into a disapproval frown.

"Don't say that. He was probably just having a bad day. Teenagers go through rebellious phases."

The neighbor opened her mouth to argue, but shrugged, too embarrassed to keep arguing with the neighborhood "saint."

Another neighbor, Bella, smiled and patted Sebastian on the shoulder.

"Hey, Sebastian, my son absolutely loved those fried chicken wings you made last time. When are you making them again?"

"What a coincidence!" Sebastian lifted his basket.

"I was actually planning on making some today. I'll send them over to your place later."

Bella nodded, taking his labor for granted.

As soon as we walked through our front door, Sebastian tossed the grocery basket at me.

"Kate, go fry those wings. Bella is waiting."

I glanced at him and said slowly, "Dad, last time you had me deliver those wings to Bella, she knew immediately that you didn't cook them."

"I had to make up a bunch of excuses to cover for you. If you keep doing this, what will the neighbors say?"

"Your perfect reputation will be ruined."

Sebastian’s eyes widened in panic. He quickly grabbed the basket back. "Fine, don't worry about it. I'll do it myself."

"Honestly, you've lived with me for so long and you still haven't learned my recipes. What are you even good for?"

I ignored his complaining and went straight to my room.

My dad was a "saint" to the world, but his sainthood was entirely built on exploiting me.

When I was five, he made me give bread to a homeless man who groped me and tried to pull up my skirt.

When I cried and told him, he snapped, "What lies are you telling at your age?"

"He just likes children. Why would he do that to you?"

"You have a dirty mind to think of a poor man like that."

Whenever neighbors needed help, he agreed instantly.

But once the door was closed, he dumped all the work on me while he soaked up their praise.

In middle school, I was competing for a scholarship meant for low-income students. He forced me to withdraw my application.

"We are poor, yes, but there are students who need that money way more than you do!"

Afterward, he complained, "It's all your fault we're so broke. If you didn't have to go to school, I wouldn't be struggling so much!"

Yet, he conveniently forgot that our poverty was entirely his own doing.

When my parents got married, my grandfather gave Sebastian five thousand dollars.

Back then, that was a small fortune.

But to please his so-called "friends," Sebastian lent the money to whoever asked, without even asking for a receipt.

"Sebastian, I want to buy a motorcycle. I'm short five hundred bucks."

"Sebastian, my kid needs a laptop for school. You have to lend me the money!"

When my mom found out and went to demand the money back, Sebastian’s friends literally beat her up and threw her out.

Instead of defending her, Sebastian slapped her across the face.

"You embarrassed me! You made me look cheap!"

Later, in a desperate attempt to make the money back, he got hooked on gambling.

After losing everything, the other gamblers mocked him.

"Sebastian, you have nothing left to bet."

Sebastian grabbed a young me and threw me onto the poker table.

"I still have Kate! If I lose again, she’s yours to keep."

My mom couldn't take it anymore. She packed her bags and left when I was four, never to return.

I never blamed her.

Sebastian didn't love her, and he was a terrible husband. She had no reason to stay in this living hell.

I started working part-time jobs in middle school to help pay off Sebastian’s debts.

I thought that after all these years of surviving together, we had some kind of father-daughter bond.

But I was wrong. He didn’t just want to ruin my life; he actively helped Mark murder me.