Page 60 of What Goes Around

The helpless little-sister act.

One she’d perfected.

One I’d fallen for more times than I could count in my former life.

I stepped to the side, intending to walk past her.

She moved faster.

A stumble.

A gasp.

Then a dramatic fall, her body slipping down the stairs.

The thud echoed through the house.

Mom’s shriek came first. Dad’s heavy footsteps followed.

Apple lay curled on the bottom landing, clutching her arm, milking the moment for everything it was worth.

Mom rushed to her. “Baby, oh God, what happened?”

Apple looked up through wet lashes, then lifted her gaze toward me at the top of the stairs. Soft. Wounded.

Not accusing out loud.

Just implying it.

Just enough to condemn me.

I remained still at the top of the stairs, arms at my sides. My face was blank, detached, observing her theatrics like a clinical case study.

“Ashley,” Mom snapped, “what were you thinking? She’s a violinist, she can’t get injured!”

I opened my mouth, but Dad reached me first.

He stormed up the stairs and slapped me.

The sting blossomed across my cheek.

Just like before.

Just like in the last life.

Apple sobbed louder, feeding the drama.

“If she hurt her hand,” he started, then rushed back down to examine her fingers.

“She didn’t,” I said, voice cold. “And I didn’t touch her.”

“You were behind her,” Mom began.

Of course. The same blind loyalty. The same stupidity.

I let my lips curve into a slow, cold smile. “Where’s your evidence?”

“Evidence?” Mom barked. “We saw what happened.”