Chapter 1: Poison in the Bloodline

I was a wicked woman—guilty of every sin in the book. My husband hated me with every fiber of his being.

Funny thing is, if you’d met me back then, you’d probably have hated me too. I wore my cruelty like a second skin—sharp, polished—hell, I could cut a man down with a look. The kind of woman folks whispered about over backyard fences, shaking their heads, like I was a walking cautionary tale. Not that I cared. Not then.

But after I died, he sat by my casket all night, eyes bloodshot, murmuring again and again:

"Try to be a better person in your next life. Don’t be so cruel again..."

I never expected this. The lights in the funeral home flickered, shadows stretching across the polished oak of my casket. He looked so small in that folding chair, suit rumpled, like he’d been fighting with the world and lost. His voice broke on the same words, over and over, as if saying it enough times could wash away everything that came before. There was something almost pitiful in the way he clung to hope for a better version of me—one that never existed. He was holding out for a ghost.

I found it almost funny. If I got another chance, how could a woman like me ever turn into a saint? Yeah, right.

The idea of me, haloed and pure, was laughable. I could practically hear the afterlife peanut gallery snickering. If there’s a next life, maybe I’d try for something more interesting than sainthood—at least I’d have a hell of a story to tell.

After my second shot at life, my methods were sharper than ever.

Rebirth didn’t soften me. It gave me an edge. Memory. Regret. I moved through the world with a cold clarity, every gesture calculated, every word measured. If anything, I’d only grown more dangerous—like a knife that remembers every hand that ever tried to dull its edge.

So why did the man who used to be so proud seem to regret everything this time around?

He’d always been a man who never looked back, but now I caught him staring at me with a strange, haunted look—like he was searching for something he’d lost and was afraid to find again. It was almost enough to make me laugh, if the irony didn’t sting so much.

Everyone in Maple Heights knew Lila Quinn. She was my best friend.

She was the type everyone admired—charming, clever, always the center of attention at any garden party or book club. We’d grown up together, our names linked in every yearbook and town newsletter. Folks called us inseparable, two sides of the same coin.

But lately, I’d been dodging her.

I’d started making excuses, hiding out in my study or feigning headaches. The truth was, I couldn’t stand the sight of her anymore. Every time she smiled at me, it felt like a lie I’d swallowed whole.

My maid, Rosie, couldn’t figure it out.

She’d been with me since I was a kid—loyal, sharp as a tack, never afraid to speak her mind. She hovered by the door, worry etched across her face.

"Miss, Lila Quinn’s come by again, but you keep saying you’re sick."

I thumbed through the ledgers, picked up my mug, and took a slow sip of coffee.

The coffee was burnt, but I let the bitterness settle on my tongue. It matched my mood. I barely looked up from the stack of paperwork, the numbers blurring together. "She’s bad news. What’s the point in seeing her?"

"But aren’t you and Lila... best friends?"

Rosie’s voice was soft, almost pleading. She’d never understood the tangled mess that lay beneath the surface of our friendship. To her, things were simple: friends stuck together, no matter what.

I glanced at the records showing all the times my father quietly funneled our family money to prop up the Quinns, and couldn’t help but laugh.

Decades of quiet support—checks written under fake names, IOUs tucked into old cigar boxes. The numbers didn’t lie. I wondered if anyone else ever noticed how the Quinns always landed on their feet, no matter how rough things got. "Not just best friends. We’re practically sisters."

Lila’s mother, Donna Carter, was my mom’s cousin. Before she got married, she’d come by our house all the time to see my mother.

Donna was the kind of woman who made every room feel smaller. Her laughter was too loud. Her perfume lingered long after she left. She’d sit on the porch swing with my mom, sipping sweet tea and gossiping about everyone in Maple Heights. I used to think she was glamorous, a little mysterious—a grown-up with secrets I was too young to understand.

One thing led to another, and she ended up having an affair with my father.

Affairs in small towns never stay secret for long. Not in Maple Heights, anyway. There’s always someone peeking through the blinds, someone who hears too much at the grocery store. Still, they tried to hide it—late-night phone calls, whispered conversations in the garage. I was just a kid, but even then, I sensed something was off.

Before my dad landed his first real job, the Sinclair family had already been down on its luck for years. They couldn’t risk losing my mom’s inheritance, so my grandma kept the whole thing hush-hush.

Our house was big but drafty, the wallpaper peeling in the corners. My grandmother ruled with an iron fist, her word law. She saw everything as a transaction, every relationship a ledger to be balanced. That’s how she survived. She’d do anything to keep our family afloat—even if it meant burying the truth deeper than the old Sinclair silver in the attic.

Donna Carter got married off to one of my dad’s coworkers. By then, she was already pregnant with Lila.

I remember the wedding—cheap flowers, smiles that didn’t reach anyone’s eyes, Donna’s eyes darting around the room like a trapped bird. She wore white, but everyone whispered. The whole thing felt like a play, everyone pretending not to notice the baby bump hidden beneath layers of tulle.

If they’d wanted to keep it quiet, they could’ve hidden it from my mom forever.

Secrets have a way of surfacing, though. Always, you know? No matter how deep you bury them, they bubble up eventually—usually at the worst possible moment.

But the wildest thing was, when Donna was helping my mom during childbirth, she leaned in and softly asked whether I looked like Lila.

I’ll never forget the look on my mom’s face. Pale and sweating, clutching the sheets, she turned to Donna with a confusion that quickly turned to horror. The question hung in the air, sharp as a knife. Even as a child, I felt the world shift.

My mom never dreamed her own husband and cousin could do something so vile right under her nose.

Betrayal hurts worst when it’s family. My mom had always trusted her family—her cousin, her husband. She never saw the knife coming until it was too late.

That year, I was eight, standing outside a tangle of white curtains.

I remember the smell of antiseptic, the hush of nurses’ voices, the way the sunlight slanted through the window. I pressed my ear to the door, heart pounding, trying to make sense of the muffled words inside.

I saw Donna bend down and whisper something to my mother. My mom propped herself up, glanced at me, and coughed up a mouthful of blood.

The sound was wet, final. I watched as the life drained from her eyes, her hand reaching out for me and falling short. Donna’s face twisted, but I couldn’t tell if it was guilt or something darker.

That day, she died in childbirth, bleeding out—taking the baby with her.

They wrapped the house in black crepe, neighbors dropping off casseroles and pie, everyone whispering about tragedy and bad luck. I stood at the top of the stairs, numb, listening to the grown-ups argue about what came next.

Years later, Donna told me she’d urged my mom to hold on for my sake.

She said it with tears in her eyes, voice trembling, as if she wanted me to believe she’d done everything she could. For years, I held onto that lie, clutching it like a security blanket.

Back then, I actually believed her.

I was just a kid, desperate for comfort. I wanted to believe the adults around me were good, that the world made sense. I didn’t know any better.

It wasn’t until years later that I found out the truth about who Lila really was.

The truth came out in whispers and old letters, in the way people looked at me when they thought I wasn’t watching. It was like finding a puzzle piece that had always been missing—except the picture it completed was uglier than I ever imagined.

I tracked down the nurse who’d delivered my mom and finally got the real story.

She was an old woman by then, living in a retirement home on the edge of town. Her hands shook as she poured sweet tea, her voice soft but steady as she told me everything—the affair, the fights, the blood that wouldn’t stop. I left her room feeling hollow, the pieces of my childhood rearranged forever.

By then, Donna was long gone.

She’d skipped town years ago, leaving nothing behind but a trail of rumors and unpaid bills. Some folks said she’d remarried, others that she’d disappeared out West. I never cared enough to find out.

But lucky me—I got another shot at life.

I don’t know how or why, but I woke up with memories of everything that had happened. Twenty years of bitterness, loss, and hard lessons. This time, I was ready.

I’d survived twenty years in the back rooms of the Sinclair house, behind closed doors. I’d seen every kind of game and manipulation. Revenge? That was child’s play.

I’d learned to keep my head down, to listen more than I spoke. I’d watched the adults around me twist every situation to their advantage. By the time I was old enough to fight back, I was already a master at the game.

I faked being sick and avoided Lila a few times.

I’d perfected the art of the sick note—pale face, trembling hands, a cough at just the right moment. Oscar-worthy, every time. Rosie would fuss over me, bringing hot tea and cold compresses, never suspecting a thing.

One day, Lila brought Donna along to visit me.

I heard their voices echoing down the hall, laughter too bright, footsteps too eager. I steeled myself, putting on my best sickly smile as they entered my room.

Since she was my aunt, Donna often came by. She was talented at quilting, and she’d taught me to sew. After losing my mom young, I actually found comfort in her.

We’d sit by the window, sewing, her voice drifting over old stories about her childhood. Sometimes, I almost forgot the darkness lurking beneath her kindness. Sometimes, I almost let myself believe she loved me.

She visited so often that she and my dad had plenty of chances to meet in secret.

Looking back, I can’t believe I was so blind. The signs were everywhere—lingering glances, whispered conversations, doors that clicked shut just as I entered the room. But a child sees what she wants to see.

I used to think my father never remarried because he still missed my mother. Turns out, he always had someone else in his heart. Shows what I knew.

It’s funny how grief can look like devotion from the outside. For years, I thought my father’s loneliness was proof of his love for my mother. Now I know better.

When Mr. Quinn first started out at City Hall, his paycheck barely covered the bills, but Donna and Lila lived like royalty for years, enjoying every comfort.

Their house was always warm, always filled with fresh flowers and new clothes. It always smelled like money. Lila never went without, not even during the lean years. I used to envy her, not realizing where it all came from.

All those years, they lived off my father’s support.

The proof was right there in the books, in every unexplained withdrawal and mysterious deposit. My father had built their lives on the foundation of my mother’s inheritance, brick by stolen brick.

My eyes lingered on the flashy gold brooch in Donna’s hair. I shot Rosie a look to bring the coffee, then covered my mouth with a napkin and coughed lightly.

The brooch caught the sunlight, glinting like a little trophy. I wondered if Donna ever thought about where it came from, or if she just enjoyed the way it made her feel special. Rosie bustled in with the coffee, her cheeks flushed, eager to please.

Lila took a sip, then set her cup down, frowning:

"This is last year’s beans."

Her nose wrinkled, the way it always did when something didn’t meet her standards. Lila had a taste for the finer things, even if she liked to act humble. She was always quick to point out a flaw, always eager to remind me of my place.

I smiled. "You sure have a refined palate. I can’t tell the difference. This coffee came from Grandma. She said the household expenses have been high lately, and every room needs to cut back. Things are a bit tight for me."

I shrugged, letting my voice go light, almost teasing. "Maybe I’ll start drinking instant, just to see if anyone notices. Grandma’s got everyone pinching pennies. You know how it is when the roof leaks and the taxes come due."

Donna set her cup down too, trying to smooth things over: "But your mother came from one of the wealthiest families in Savannah. How could you be struggling?"

She said it with a smile, but her eyes were sharp, watching for any crack in my composure. The mention of Savannah was deliberate—a reminder of everything I’d lost, everything she’d gained. As she spoke, she noticed my half-finished needlepoint on the table and picked it up.

"You missed a few stitches here. Let Aunt Donna fix it for you."

Her hands moved with practiced ease, fingers nimble. I hated how good she was at it. I nodded, feigning gratitude, though the sight of her touching my work made my skin crawl.

I agreed, then turned to chat with Lila about the new blends the local roaster had brought in.

"Did you try that Ethiopian roast from Main Street Coffee? I heard it’s all the rage downtown," I said, keeping my tone breezy. Lila perked up, eager to show off her knowledge, and for a moment, it almost felt like old times—just shooting the breeze.

Sunlight slanted through the window, steam curling in the air, the backyard peaceful and quiet. For a second, everything was perfect.

Outside, the maple trees swayed in the breeze, leaves casting dappled shadows across the porch. The world felt suspended, as if time had slowed just for us. The only sound was the gentle clink of china and the distant hum of a lawnmower.

Looking at the mother and daughter before me, I suddenly smiled and said:

"Actually, I have some really good coffee in my room too. But I put a little something in the pot you drank today—didn’t want to waste the good stuff, so I served this instead."

My words hung in the air, heavy and deliberate. I wanted them to squirm.

The room went dead silent.

Even Rosie froze in place, her tray trembling in her hands. For a moment, it felt like the whole house was holding its breath.

Lila froze.

Her fingers tightened around the armrest, knuckles white. She looked at me like she’d never seen me before.

"What... what did you say?"

Her voice was barely a whisper, trembling with fear. I could see the calculation in her eyes, the desperate hope that I was joking.

Drip, drip... A few drops of bright red blood splattered onto the white linen stretched on the embroidery hoop, slowly spreading.

The blood was shockingly vivid against the fabric, blooming outward in a pattern that looked almost beautiful. Almost beautiful, if you squinted. I watched it soak in, a silent testament to everything that had come before.

Lila turned slowly to look at Donna beside her.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Donna’s face had gone ashen, her eyes wide with disbelief.

Blood streamed from Donna’s mouth and nose.

It was a gruesome sight—red staining her teeth, dribbling down her chin. She tried to speak, but only managed a wet, gurgling sound.

I looked at Lila, my voice calm: "She drank more of the poisoned coffee than you did, so it’s hitting her faster."

I kept my tone even, almost clinical. There was no pleasure in it—just cold satisfaction. Lila’s hands shook as she clutched at her throat, panic rising in her eyes.

Lila clutched her chest, collapsing to the floor, staring at me wide-eyed.

Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. She looked up at me, tears streaming down her cheeks, as if begging for mercy I no longer had. Too late for that.

"You... you’re crazy! Why are you doing this to us?"

Her voice cracked, fear and betrayal mingling in every syllable. She tried to crawl away, but her limbs wouldn’t cooperate.

I smiled at Donna. "You should be asking your mother why she did what she did to mine."

I let the words sink in, my gaze unwavering. Let her stew. For the first time, Donna looked truly afraid—of me, of the truth, of the consequences she’d never imagined would catch up to her.

The maids saw Donna and Lila coughing up blood and collapsing, and ran out in a panic to call my father.

The hallway filled with shouts and hurried footsteps, the clatter of shoes on hardwood. The smell of panic was thick in the air. I heard someone dialing 911, voice shaking as they tried to explain the scene unfolding in the parlor.

As soon as he entered, he saw me pressing a kitchen knife to Donna’s neck, my voice cold:

"Tell me—why did you hurt my mother?"

My hand was steady, the blade gleaming in the afternoon light. Donna’s eyes darted from me to my father, silently pleading for help.

Donna couldn’t speak, only coughing up more blood.

She tried to form words, but the poison had stolen her voice. Blood bubbled from her lips, staining the collar of her dress.

My father was so shocked by the sight of all that blood, his legs nearly gave out.

He staggered back, grabbing the doorframe for support. His face went white as a sheet, eyes wide with terror.

I slowly turned to look at him.

The room seemed to shrink around us, the air thick with tension. I met his gaze, unflinching.

"Are you scared, Dad? The night Mom died in childbirth, there was way more blood than this..."

My words were soft, almost gentle, but the accusation was unmistakable. His hands shook, guilt and fear warring in his eyes.

His fingers trembled as he pointed at me. "Morgan Sinclair, have you lost your mind? Put the knife down!"

His voice cracked, desperation bleeding through the anger. He was scared. Good. He looked at me like I was a stranger, someone he’d never known.

I lowered my hand and sighed. "She can’t talk anymore. There’s no point asking. But I have another way."

I straightened, walked up to my father, and grabbed his outstretched hand in a death grip.

His skin was cold and clammy, his pulse fluttering beneath my fingers. I could feel his fear, sharp and electric. It almost thrilled me.

In the next moment, I drew the blade across his palm, leaving a long gash.

Blood welled up instantly, dark and thick. He gasped, more in shock than pain, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Right then, I must have looked like a demon straight out of a nightmare. Even the house staff behind my father shrank back at my glare.

I could feel their eyes on me, a mixture of horror and fascination. For a moment, I reveled in their fear—it was the only power I had left.

I was no match for a grown man’s strength, but he was so terrified that I managed to drag him in front of Lila.

He stumbled, barely resisting, his shoes slipping on the blood-slick floor. The room reeked of copper and panic.

His blood dripped from his wrist, mixing with the pool of blood Lila had coughed up.

The sight was grotesque—red on red, the sins of the past staining the present. History written in blood. I let the moment linger, letting him see the consequences of his actions.

Tears streamed down my face as I laughed. "Blood doesn’t lie. So she really is your daughter, Dad..."

My laughter was bitter, edged with grief. The truth was out, undeniable. There was no going back.

I let go of his hand, walked over to Donna, crouched before her, and asked:

"This is what you told my mom during childbirth, isn’t it?"

I searched her face for any sign of remorse, any hint of humanity. All I saw was fear. Figures.

"Hurts, doesn’t it?"

I leaned in close, my voice a whisper. "If you admit it, I’ll make it quick."

My father scrambled up from the floor, cursing behind me: "You... you ungrateful child! You’d even stab your own father! How could you..."

His words were wild, desperate, echoing off the walls. He sounded less like a father and more like a cornered animal. He was pathetic.

Before he could finish, blood splattered across his face.

The knife moved almost on its own, my hand steady. The spray was warm, shocking in its intensity. For a moment, everything went silent. Just like that, it was done.

I drove the knife into Donna’s neck.

Her body jerked, blood gushing from the wound. Her eyes locked on mine, wide with terror and something like understanding.

A stream of blood ran down my hand.

It felt hot, sticky, a physical manifestation of everything I’d carried for years. I didn’t flinch.

She stared at me, mouth open, unable to utter a word.

Her lips moved, trying to form a final plea, but nothing came out. The light faded from her eyes, slow and final.

In my last life, my biggest regret was not avenging my mom with my own hands.

I’d spent years haunted by what-ifs and missed chances. This time, I took control. This time, I made sure there was no doubt.

This time, I finally did it.

The sense of closure was sharp, almost painful. I felt lighter and heavier all at once. The weight shifted. The scar stayed.