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?"

He paused, letting the silence stretch before dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"You're the beneficiary of Ethan's accident insurance, aren't you?"

My heart skipped a beat.

In my past life, this conversation never happened. Back then, I had been hysterical, screaming for the police while they scrambled to subdue me and sanitize the crime scene. But now, faced with my eerie calm, Derek prioritized his greed.

I studied his face, inches from mine. The grief was gone, replaced by cold calculation.

"Yes," I said, nodding slowly. "I'm his mother. Who else would it be?"

Derek's eyes gleamed with immediate interest.

"The payout is estimated around eighty thousand dollars." The number rolled off his tongue with practiced ease. "I want you to promise me something. Once the money comes in, transfer it to Diana."

He spoke with sickening entitlement, as if the money were already his to allocate.

"She's found a school-district apartment she loves, but she's short on the down payment. We're family, Sarah. Helping each other is what we do." He leaned closer, his voice dripping with faux sympathy. "Besides... holding onto that money will only make you feel worse. Giving it to Diana could be seen as... accumulating good karma for the boy, don't you think?"

Mrs. Lawson chimed in on cue, her timing impeccable.

"Sarah, dear, the boy is gone, and Mom knows you're hurting. But you're still young. You and Derek will have another child. We have to look out for the living."

She even managed to squeeze out a few tears, acting the benevolent matriarch planning for my future.

Diana lifted her head, eyes rimmed with red, playing the reluctant beneficiary.

"Sister-in-law, I know I shouldn't bring this up right now, but the kids need a good school. It's a huge matter. Don't worry, I'll pay you back. I'll even write you an IOU..."

Around the room, the relatives nodded in solemn agreement. A chorus of vultures.

I looked at them, one by one.

The final piece snapped into place. No wonder they wanted to murder my son. It wasn't just hatred—it was insurance fraud. They killed my child to buy a condo.

Cold rage crashed against my ribs, but I forced it down, keeping my expression blank. I paused for a long moment, letting them sweat.

"Sure."

The room went still. They hadn't expected me to capitulate so easily.

"But I need to tell my mom first," I added. "She's the one who raised him. Now that he's... gone... if I don't explain it clearly, she'll make a scene. You know her temper."

Derek frowned. Mrs. Lawson opened her mouth to object, but Derek raised a hand to silence her. He studied me for a few seconds, weighing the risk.

Finally, he nodded.

"That's fair. Break the news gently. Don't let her get too worked up."

I pulled out my phone, opened WeChat, and started a video call.

Every pair of eyes fixed on me. The tension was suffocating.

Connect.

The screen lit up. My mother's face appeared, looking confused.

"Sarah? What's wrong? I thought you said you wouldn't be back until late?"

Behind her, on the living room carpet, a small figure sat with his back to the camera, engrossed in stacking building blocks.

"Mom," I said, my voice steady. "Put Ethan on. I want to say hi."

The small figure turned around. When he saw me on the screen, his face lit up with pure joy. Ethan grinned, his deep dimples popping as he shouted at the phone.

"Mom! When are you coming back? Grandma made dumplings! It's the pork and cabbage kind you like!"

His cheerful voice sliced through the living room like a blade.

The air instantly froze.

Derek, Diana, Mrs. Lawson, every relative present—their eyes widened. They looked at the living, breathing Ethan on my phone screen, then turned their heads toward the red figure lying lifeless in the snow outside.