It was the kind of cold that seeped into your bones.
In my past life, I was locked in the abandoned freezer beneath St. Jude Preparatory Academy.
Outside the door stood my biological brother Spencer, along with Landon—my boyfriend of three years. And between them, wearing Landon's oversized football jacket, was my stepsister Lacey.
"Blythe, just admit you bullied me. Post an apology video to the whole school, and Spencer will let you out." Lacey's voice trembled, fake tears glistening at the corners of her eyes.
Spencer's voice cut through the metal door like ice:
"Blythe, you brought this on yourself. You've been terrorizing Lacey at school, pushed her to the edge. Maybe some time in there will teach you what decency looks like."
Landon's voice dripped with disappointment: "Jesus, Blythe. I thought I knew you. This isn't who you are."
I pounded on the iron door until my fists were raw, screaming until my voice gave out.
I told them the truth—that I never touched Lacey. That she was the one forcing girls to their knees in the bathroom. That she stole my exam. That every shred of "evidence" was manufactured.
No one believed me.
I froze to death in that sub-zero hellhole.
As the cold claimed me, staring at my blue-purple fingers, all I felt was pure, burning hate.
Then I opened my eyes again—back to the day it all began.
