The year Sophie was born was filled with joy for our family.

My parents told me, as the older sister, to treat Sophie as precious as the apple of my eye.

Ever since I was a child, I would let her have the best of everything, placing her needs above my own life.

Sophie relied on me heavily, always saying I was the most important person in her world.

So when she accidentally knocked over a candle and set the house on fire, she sobbed, begging me not to reveal the truth.

At fifteen, I carried my ten-year-old sister out of the blazing house, my legs scorched by the flames.

I thought I had done something heroic, but we were unaware that our mother, who had just come home from a night shift, was asleep in the bedroom.

My mother perished in the fire.

It wasn't until after the firefighters extinguished the flames that they discovered her charred remains.

When Dad learned what happened, he broke down and blamed me entirely.

"It's all your fault! How could we have raised a daughter who would bring such tragedy? You've killed your own mother!"

I was left defenseless, with only my tears to speak for me.

I wanted to tell him it wasn't my fault, that Sophie was the one who had lit the candle.

But I had promised Sophie I would keep her secret, especially as she was hospitalized with severe trauma from the fire.

I couldn't say a word, could express nothing.

In the pouring rain, Dad left me behind, as if I were nothing more than a stray dog.

Eventually, Tony couldn't stand by and watch; he took me in.

I was barred from attending my mother's funeral and was not allowed to say goodbye.

I bowed deeply towards the direction of the crematorium until my forehead bled.

I know I failed my mother and my father.

And after the funeral, Sophie hugged me.

"Thank you for not ruining my life," she whispered.

She also cautioned me, "The incident is in the past now. Don't ever bring it up with Dad. Keep to the story as we've told it."

Only the dead keep their secrets, a fact both Sophie and I knew all too well.

Maybe her desire to kill me started years ago, but I never saw it coming.

I thought taking the blame could heal our family, and maybe get us back to the good old days.

But as time went by, Dad's hatred for me only deepened.

So on the anniversary of Mom's death, I'd vanish for a while, this year included.

Early this month, I moved in with my childhood buddy, Kelsey, to avoid upsetting Dad.

But then, out of the blue, I got a call.

It was the kidnappers, demanding ransom for Sophie.

Sophie screamed on the phone, "Emily, save me!"

She insisted, "Come alone, or they'll kill me!"

Being a forensic pathologist's daughter, I was mentally prepared for such scenarios.

I went alone with the ransom to the specified abandoned factory.

There, I found Sophie, unharmed, standing with several burly men she had hired.

My blood ran cold.

Sophie pointed at me and coldly ordered, "That's her, get rid of her, and leave no trace."

My own sister, whom I've cared for all my life, ready to betray me so cruelly.

What happened next is a blur.

In extreme pain, people tend to forget.

All I remember is not wanting to die, desperately gasping for air.

I struggled, leaving a trail of blood as I crawled, trying to call Dad for help with my smartwatch.

The calls went through but were disconnected repeatedly.

Dad wasn't answering.

Sophie's hired thugs smashed my watch, taunting, "Still trying to call for help? Are you asking for death?"

"The boss said it's all fair game, just finish her off!"

They stabbed me mercilessly, and broke my arms and legs as I tried to crawl forward.

But I still clung to life.

There was something I still hadn't told Dad...