"Let Ethan play. He needs to bond with his cousins if he's ever going to fit into this family. It's for his own good."

"You protect him too much. How will he ever get along with his siblings if you coddle him like this?"

"That's not—"

I tried to explain that the child in the suit wasn't my son, but my protests were cut short. My two sisters-in-law flanked me, "supporting" me by the arms. Their smiles were plastered on, polite and strained, but their grip was iron. They dug their fingers into my flesh, dragging me back into the house and shoving me onto the living room sofa.

"Just rest for a bit, Sister-in-law. You're too worked up."

My chest heaved. I wasn't winded from exertion—I was suffocating from terror.

A chilling sense of déjà vu washed over me. These scenes overlapped perfectly with the nightmare of my previous life. The same obstruction. The same dismissive lines.

Forcing myself to breathe, I feigned resignation. Once their guard lowered, I retrieved my phone and typed a message under the cover of my sleeve.

Mom, where are you and Ethan right now?

Seconds later, a reply buzzed. I pressed the speaker to my ear, keeping the volume barely audible.

Ethan's voice, clear and bright, drifted through. "Mom, Grandma and I just got home! Grandma said she's making dumplings for me tonight. When are you coming back?"

Relief hit me so hard I nearly wept.

Thank God. The child inside the horse costume wasn't my son.

But the relief was short-lived. If Ethan was safe at my mother's house, then who was lying in the snow right now?

Through the window, I saw the horse costume swaying violently in the deep drifts. Muffled, desperate cries echoed from within.

"Let go of me! Let me out!"

Diana's son jumped up and down, his face flushed with cruel excitement. "Bury him! Bury him deep!"

The other children swarmed like locusts. They scooped up heavy chunks of snow, piling them onto the horse's back, packing it tight around the legs. The costume struggled, thrashing against the weight, but the movements grew weaker with every passing second.

Even if it wasn't my son, there was a human being inside that suit. My conscience wouldn't let me watch a murder.

"Make them stop! They're burying him alive!"

I bolted from the sofa, but the adults merely chuckled. The atmosphere remained terrifyingly casual.

Aunt Brenda sat in the armchair, cracking sunflower seeds. She spat out a shell and shrugged. "What's the worst that can happen? Kids are just playing. Didn't we all play rough in the snow when we were little?"

Cousin Linda poured a cup of steaming tea and slid it toward me. Her smile was gentle, but her eyes were cold. "Ethan isn't even crying for help, Sarah. Why are you so anxious? Let the boys have their fun."

Margaret walked over and patted my shoulder with heavy, authoritative hands. "Sarah, I'm not trying to lecture you, but boys need to be toughened up. Don't raise him to be so delicate. Look at Derek—he took plenty of falls when he was a child, and look how successful he is now."

Every word struck a nerve. Exactly what they had said in my past life. A script recited verbatim.

Derek sat beside me. He didn't look at the window. Instead, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Sarah, if you keep making a scene, you're going to embarrass me. It's New Year's. Do you really have to make us a joke in front of the relatives?"

I turned to look at my husband. He felt like a stranger.

No worry in his eyes. No fatherly instinct. Only impatience and cold concern for his reputation.

"Aren't you worried?" My voice trembled. "What if something happens? That's your son out there."

Derek scoffed. "You're hysterical. How could anything happen in a pile of snow?"

A chill that had nothing to do with winter settled in my bones.

From Diana dragging me inside, to Aunt Brenda and Cousin Linda blocking my path, to Margaret's lectures, and Derek's suppression—it was too coherent. Too synchronized.

Like a rehearsed play where every actor knew their lines.

They aren't just negligent, I realized. They did this on purpose.

They intended for Ethan to die in that snow.

Outside, the snow continued to fall. The horse doll had stopped moving—a colorful lump buried in a frozen grave.

Diana glanced at the wall clock, then turned toward the window. "The time is about right... You kids come back inside to eat!"

As the children abandoned their game and stampeded toward the house, I seized the opportunity. Ignoring Derek's glare, I scrambled off the sofa and sprinted into the yard.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Hold on, child. Just hold on.

I clawed through the snow until a small hand slipped from the mascot costume's cuff.

Tiny—no larger than a seven or eight-year-old's. It hung limp against the white ground, the skin mottled bluish-purple.

The crowd pressed in. When they saw the hand, silence fell like a guillotine.

"Is... is he dead?" someone whispered.

Diana dropped to a squat, pressing two fingers to the small wrist. The family held its breath.

Seconds later, she released the arm. It flopped onto the snow with a dull thud.

"No pulse." Her voice was clinical. "He's gone."

Screams erupted from the children. Adults pulled their own kids close, terror etched on their faces.

But Derek's voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

"Ryan. Guard the main gate."

He didn't shout, but the command was absolute. "Don't let the neighbors hear a thing. It's New Year's—I won't have us become a laughingstock."

Ryan Lawson froze for a split second, then obeyed. He marched to the courtyard gate and slammed the heavy bolt home, sealing us in.

Derek turned his cold gaze on the terrified children.

"Inside. All of you. Game room upstairs." His eyes bore into them. "You saw nothing today. You were just playing in the snow. Understood?"

Not a question. An order.

The children exchanged nervous glances. A few younger ones wailed, but the older cousins grabbed them and dragged them toward the stairs, vanishing into the house.

My shock began to fracture. Trembling, I reached for the mascot's oversized headpiece. I had to know who was inside.

Before my fingers touched the fabric, a brutal force slammed into me. Derek shoved me aside, sending me sprawling onto the ice.

He loomed over me, his expression twisting into performed grief and rage.

"Now you decide to care?" he spat. "Why weren't you watching him? This is your fault!"

Margaret's wails pierced the air right on cue.

"How many times did I tell you? Too many people today! I told you not to let him run wild, but you wouldn't listen! Are you satisfied now?"

The relatives swarmed like vultures, picking up the narrative.

"That suit is a death trap! We told you not to put him in it!"

"You insisted it was festive. You just had to mess around..."

Rehearsed lines. Every face etched with feigned regret and accusation.

I saw through them instantly. They were replaying my past life, pinning "my son's" death squarely on me.

I scrambled to my feet, glaring at the mob. "You're twisting the truth! You did this! You killed him!"

Their expressions hardened. Derek grabbed my arm, his grip bruising, and dragged me toward the house.

"Sarah, you need to take responsibility."

Diana was already waiting inside. She thrust a printed document and pen at me the moment we entered.

"Sign it," Derek ordered, pointing at the signature line. "Family accidents shouldn't become criminal cases. We can't let the other kids get a record because of a mistake."

I stared at the paper. Accidental Death Liability Waiver.

I acknowledge that my inadequate supervision led to the child's accidental death during play. I voluntarily waive the right to pursue legal action against family members or friends, and I promise not to involve the police or press charges...

I looked up at him, my gaze cold.

"You know it wasn't me."

Derek leaned in, his voice dropping to a manipulative whisper.

"The boy is already dead, Sarah. Do you really want to drag the whole family down with you?"

The relatives nodded, sighing in perfect unison.

Margaret grabbed my hand, her face a mask of tragic sorrow.

"Sarah, please. The child is gone. Don't ruin the lives of the living children. They're too young for a police investigation..."

Aunt Brenda chimed in, her voice dripping with false concern.

"We're all family here, Sarah. If this goes to court, it'll drag our name through the mud. Think of the child's spirit—he wouldn't want to see his family tearing each other apart."

When I stayed silent, Derek's voice dropped an octave, patience gone.

"If you don't sign, you're condemning yourself. You'll be the murderer who killed her own son. Everyone here can testify—you put him in that costume. You sent him to his death."

I ignored their faces. My gaze drifted past them, landing on the snow-covered yard through the window. The hem of the mascot costume had flipped up, exposing a single foot.

A navy blue sneaker with white stripes.

Ethan didn't own shoes like that.

I looked up, scanning these so-called "relatives" one by one.

"Are you all certain the boy who died is my son?"

The room went still. Then incredulous laughter broke the tension.

"If it's not Ethan, who else would it be?" Aunt Brenda scoffed.

Diana's eyes were still red-rimmed, but her tone snapped back to its usual sharpness. "You brought the costume. You put it on Ethan yourself. Are you going senile?"

Margaret wiped her crocodile tears and nodded vigorously. "Yes, we all saw it. You dressed him with your own hands."

A lie repeated a thousand times becomes truth. They'd told the story so many times they'd started believing their own fabrication.

I fixed my eyes on Derek.

His gaze flickered—a crack in his composure—before he steadied himself.

I took a slow breath and asked the question that had burned in my chest for two lifetimes.

"Derek, is it because Ethan isn't your flesh and blood that you don't care he's dead?"

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Everyone knew Ethan was from my first marriage. During our year together, Derek had played the perfect stepfather. I knew he was a mama's boy, knew he had an unhealthy obsession with spoiling his sister, but I'd tolerated it. As a remarried woman, I thought if he treated my son well, I could endure the rest.

I never expected the mask to slip so completely.

Derek stood stunned, eyes widening. He shook his head violently, as if trying to dislodge my accusation.

"Sarah, you're hysterical! Don't spout such nonsense!"

But the panic in his eyes betrayed him.

Margaret reacted first. She marched into the kitchen and returned brandishing a knife. The blade caught the light as she pointed it at me.

"Are you signing or not? If you sign, this nightmare ends. If you don't..."

Her eyes dropped to my hand on the table.

Phantom pain shot through me. In my previous life, I'd refused. This woman had pinned me down and chopped off two of my fingers. Later, they told the police I'd had a psychotic break and mutilated myself.

Every person in this room had testified against me.

This time, I didn't fight. I gave a stiff nod.

"I'll sign."

As the ink dried, relief swept through the living room. Derek walked over and patted my shoulder, a satisfied smile on his lips.

"Good. It's done. Go clean yourself up. We need to handle the child first."

Handle. He spoke of the body like a dead fish rotting on the counter.

My eyes drifted toward the window again.

"I want to see him..."

I stepped toward the door.

Derek moved instantly, his arm shooting out to block my path.

"Don't look."

His voice dropped to a whisper. "It'll only make it harder. Let Diana and the others take care of it. She's a nurse—she has experience with these things."

Has experience.

Bile rose in my throat.

I looked up at him, feigning fragility. "We can call the police now, right? The child is dead... we have to report it."

Derek's expression stiffened. He draped his arm around my shoulders, guiding me back to the sofa.

"Sarah, didn't you just sign the waiver? This was a tragic accident. We can handle it internally. Why drag the police into our grief? Why let the whole world watch us suffer?"