For the first time in Green Heights Village, someone had emerged who could potentially subdue me. The villagers, sensing an opportunity, flocked to my doorstep.

Marvin Hartey, the same man who had previously dared to challenge me, was the first to arrive. I was crouched, dutifully washing Justin's feet.

"Wow, Alicia, this meek act is quite a sight," Marvin sneered, his eyes flicking to Justin, but his words were directed at me. "Make sure you keep up the facade. Don't let anyone catch you slipping."

Justin's body trembled slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he spoke, "Come inside for a while, Alicia. Get him a glass of water."

Marvin's grin widened as he sauntered into the house, collapsing onto the sofa and crossing his legs, looking every bit the cocky guest. "Alicia, make me a cup of coffee," he demanded.

I followed him inside, closed the door, and headed towards the wardrobe.

"What are you doing? Are you deaf or something?" Marvin snapped, his annoyance clear.

I turned to face him, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across my lips.

With one swift motion, I kicked him into the wardrobe.

The man tumbled down, a series of muffled thuds echoing as he fell into the hidden chamber I had prepared meticulously beneath. I descended after him, gagging and binding him to a wooden post.

"Make another sound and I'll break a finger," I warned coolly.

Marvin's bravado evaporated; his eyes darted around the dark, damp cellar, his body trembling uncontrollably.

I removed the gag from his mouth. "How did my mother, Miranda Knightley, die?" I demanded.

Marvin rolled his eyes, thinking hard before hesitatingly answering, "She... she fell off a cliff..."

A solid wooden rod struck him, eliciting a sharp yelp of pain.

"If you don't start telling the truth, you'll be beaten without the luxury of clothes."

Marvin panicked instantly. "It was... it was a hanging!" he blurted out.

"Who did it?"

He shook his head, "I don't know."

Another sharp crack, this time with a slender rod that inflicted a stinging, acute pain. Tears streamed down his face.

"I swear, I don't know! George was the one who told us to bury Miranda. All I saw was a ligature mark on her neck. I don't know who did it!"

I retrieved his phone, found George's contact, and sent a text message before gagging him once more.

Ten minutes later, George showed up, a cigarette dangling from his lips, wearing that same friendly demeanor he always had.

But his arrival meant trouble. I was still crouched in front of Justin, whose feet were beginning to swell, the skin turning a ghostly white.

"Alicia, if you'd been like this sooner, you wouldn't still be single at your age," George said, shaking his head.

I straightened up and replied, "George, I wasn't raised with a mother. If only she were still here."

He cleared his throat. "Yeah... life sure has a way of throwing curveballs."

I smiled faintly. "Thanks for always looking out for me. Come on in; I'll make you a cup of coffee."

George squinted at me. "What about Marvin?"

"He just headed out."

Two minutes later, George found himself tied up next to Marvin.

"Alicia, what the hell is going on?" he exclaimed, panic creeping into his voice.

I let my fingers linger over the assortment of tools on the table, finally resting on a sharp iron needle.

George's face drained of color. "Alicia! Don't do anything rash!"

I chuckled darkly. "Rash? Oh, you have no idea how much I've done already."

I twisted the needle between my fingers and lightly traced it along the tip of George's finger, eliciting a shudder from him.

Just then, I heard a commotion outside and stepped out to close the wardrobe door.

The newcomer was Marvin's brother, the man I had left battered and broken—Logan Hartey. He sat there, a tense figure, while his wife, Diana Hartey, pushed his wheelchair, her fierce gaze locking onto me.

"Alicia! Marvin's been in your house for ages. Where is he?" she demanded, frustration evident in her voice.

I told them Marvin had left, but they didn't buy it.

They insisted on coming inside to check. I shrugged and stepped aside, letting them enter.

Suddenly, a whimpering sound came from the wardrobe.

Logan and Diana exchanged glances and moved to open the door.

Before they could, I shot out a question, "Diana, do you remember how my mother died?"

She turned to glare at me, her eyes cold as a snake's. "Hmph! Your mother, that worthless woman, fell off a cliff—God took her away. You think the villagers did it? You're just a bastard, no parents to speak of. The village raised you, and you should be grateful!"

Logan sensed the tension and tugged at his wife's sleeve, trying to calm her down.

But Diana only grew more agitated, shaking off his grip. "You little bitch! I've never liked you! Logan's leg is your fault! You deserve to be beaten to a pulp by that man outside!"

Logan couldn't help but smirk at his wife's words, but he quickly suppressed it, trying to play peacemaker. "Alicia, she didn't mean it. Don't take it to heart."

I couldn't muster a smile, and in a flash, I kicked Diana hard in the rear.

She stumbled forward, crashing into Logan and the wheelchair, and they all tumbled into the wardrobe, knocking it open.

I swiftly followed them inside and locked the door behind me.

Logan fell from his wheelchair, scrambling to get up, panic in his eyes.

He turned to see Diana's terrified expression, both of them frozen in shock as they realized they were tied to a wooden post in my dark room.

Now, I had four people trapped in my lair.

I grabbed a chair and faced them, ready to interrogate them.

Just then, I heard a noise behind me. I turned to see Justin, trembling, standing at the wardrobe door.

As I calculated in my head, the drug I had given Justin to numb his legs had indeed worn off, and an alarm bell went off in my mind.

Seeing his trembling legs eased my tension a bit.

Just as I exhaled a sigh of relief, Justin lunged at me, tackling me to the ground.

"If you think you can drug me and get away with it, I swear I'll ruin your reputation right here in front of them!" he shouted, fueled by misplaced confidence from previous failed attempts.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment, then pulled back my fist and swung it hard. Justin went flying, crashing 6.5 feet away.

The room fell silent.

I leaned back casually in my chair, my voice low and steady. "I didn't want to take such a hard line, but clearly, you all aren't cooperating.

"Now, let's talk about Miranda's death twenty years ago. I want the truth from each of you. If your stories don't line up, well… don't say I didn't warn you."

I gave each of them three minutes to speak, and slowly, they began to reveal what they knew.

That night, twenty years ago, I had been asleep. George, who wasn't even the village chief we know now, was busy preparing candidate materials.

He was by the window, writing under the dim light, when he suddenly heard someone wailing outside.

Curious, he peeked out and saw Miranda running for her life, glancing back in sheer terror.

Behind her was a shadowy figure, chasing her like a cheetah on the hunt.

Startled, George hesitated but ultimately decided to help.

However, by the time he stepped outside, he saw the figure wrap a rope around Miranda's neck and strangle her.

I could only imagine how horrified he felt as he watched my mother struggle before her body went limp, silent at last.

Once the coast was clear, George, trembling with fear, stumbled out into the night to drag Miranda's lifeless body away.

He called Marvin and Logan to help him bury her.

As for the shadowy figure, they had no idea who it was—just some passerby like Justin.

George explained that he didn't want me to suffer from the truth, so he spread the story that Miranda had fallen off a cliff.

One by one, they recounted their parts: how they moved her body, how they buried her.

After a long silence, they couldn't help but sneak glances at my reaction.

I raised my hands and started to clap slowly. "What a beautifully flawed tale."

After Miranda's death, George had Bruce Cooper and his family move into my house, and I was shoved into a doghouse, living a life that felt less than human.

It wasn't until I turned eighteen that they finally thought I was useful enough to let me out of my shackles.

The villagers descended on me like a pack of ravenous hyenas.

I remembered the chaos as I fought back, using everything I had.

Their screams filled the air as I drove Bruce and his family out and set fire to George's barn.

For years, I repaid every slight they had inflicted upon me.

And just like that, I was branded the villain.

Now, they were scared and trying to twist the narrative to fit their story.

They thought they could rewrite the past? In their dreams.