My Mother Cut Me Apart For My Sister Chapter 04

My Mother Cut Me Apart For My Sister Chapter 04

They stood at my grave. Mom grabbed a heavy shovel from a worker and swung it herself—one strike, and my makeshift grave marker cracked in two.

The glass frame holding my photo—black and white, the only one left of me—shattered against the ground. She glanced down at it and kept walking. Her shoe landed right on my face.

Mom, that was my only photo. Would you ever hold it and miss me? Our house never had a single picture of me.

Chloe’s pictures filled the house—framed on every surface, slipped into matching albums, every one placed with care. Mine had all ended up in the trash.

They started digging. Mom stood at the edge of the open grave, dirt piling up around her, and a sharp pain shot through her chest.

One of the forensic techs called out. “We’ve got something! There’s a bone fragment here!”

Mom’s voice came out thin and unsteady. “Test it. Now. Tell me if it’s human.”

She reached for it to run the test herself, but her hands were shaking too hard and her vision kept blurring. A colleague pulled it from her grip and examined the bone structure under his field light. The silence that followed stretched until it hurt.

“It’s animal bone.” Nervous laughter rippled through the group. “Looks like there’s no hundred-and-twentieth victim after all. He played us.”

The chat exploded: [It’s not her bone! She’s NOT dead!]

[Are you kidding me?? I actually thought she’d changed. Nope — still the same disgusting person, teaming up with a murderer to scam everyone.]

[Thank God Dr. Hayes saw right through it. They almost had us believing Chloe hired a hitman!]

[Partnering with a serial killer… honestly, she probably had something to do with those other 119 murders too]

Mom gripped her phone so hard her knuckles ached. She bent down, picked up the photo — my bright, stupid smile staring back at her — stared at it for two seconds, and tore it apart with both hands.

She couldn’t hold it in anymore. Right there, in front of the livestream, she snapped.

“I want everyone to hear this. I’m filing for an immediate arrest warrant against Stella for fraud.” Her voice shook with fury. “I will not protect a daughter who conspires with murderers.”

She pulled up my contact and sent a string of voice messages:

[You like playing dead? Fine. Play dead for the rest of your life.]

[Too bad you didn’t actually die. I wish to God your bones were in that grave right now.]

[Let me make this clear—if you die, I won’t cry. I won’t mourn. I’ll throw a damn party and pop open champagne.]

Then she blocked my number. Deleted my contact. Went onto every platform and publicly cut all ties with me.

I was sobbing so hard my soul shook. Mom, I didn’t do it — I didn’t — I kept screaming it at her, over and over, until I felt the ground shift.

Deeper in the dirt, they were easing something else free, slow and careful.

A bitter smile crossed my face. As you wish, Mom. You’re about to see me.

On the other side of the grave, another tech shouted—voice cracking: “There’s a lesson planner wrapped in plastic and a knife buried in here!”

A beat of silence.

“And… a piece of human skull.”