"I failed as a father. I can't believe I raised a daughter like this."

"From today on, I'm cutting all ties with her."

"From now on, I only have one daughter—Adela."

He shouted into the phone:

"Gertrude! Did you hear me?!"

He seemed to be waiting for me to say something.

But I couldn't say anything anymore.

The killer had slit my throat. My body wouldn't stop convulsing.

After a long silence, my father let out a heavy sigh.

"Gertrude, you've really disappointed us..."

A rusted blade hacked into my limbs. I had no strength left to fight back.

Warm tears mixed with blood ran down my face.

In the final moments of my life, there was only one thing I could still do—

I swallowed the wristband that had been recording everything.

Let me do this one last thing.

Let my death help catch this serial killer who'd evaded justice for over a decade. Let it bring some measure of peace to all his innocent victims.

One month later.

To celebrate Adela's safety, Mom and Dad held a press conference to thank everyone who had protected her.

Adela stood between them in an ivory gown, her makeup flawless, her smile perfectly calibrated.

When the cameras swept toward her, she lifted her chin just slightly.

Online, everyone was praising my parents.

"I heard their daughter was adopted from that murderer. The moment they heard she might be in danger, they hired a whole security team to guard her around the clock. What amazing parental love!"

"They really are philanthropists through and through! They took in a killer's daughter and raised her into an elite student. I have so much respect for them!"

Comments like these made my parents' smiles grow even brighter. The way they looked at Adela grew even softer.

After all, this kind of praise was exactly what they'd always wanted.

During a break between interviews, Mom kept checking her phone.

Her brow furrowed. She muttered under her breath, irritated:

"That girl Gertrude, honestly. We barely said a few words to her and she throws this big tantrum."

"Blocking our calls, ignoring us for days—what kind of behavior is that?"

Dad's voice was cold:

"We spoiled her too much."

"Especially after she broke her leg. We always felt guilty, so we let her have her way with everything. And look what happened—she just got worse."

"She knows we're soft. She thinks we'll keep bending over backward for her, so she feels safe giving us the silent treatment."

His tone hardened:

"Fine. If she wants to play this game, let her. I want to see how a cripple survives without us taking care of her."

Mom nodded, a note of agreement in her voice:

"Exactly. Once she's hungry enough, thirsty enough, sitting in her own mess with no one to help—she'll realize she was wrong."

I hovered there as a ghost, listening to every word.

The bitterness in my heart had long since run dry.

Adela came running over, lifting the hem of her skirt, her voice sweet and soft:

"Mom, Dad, I'm about to start my livestream."

"I want to tell everyone what wonderful parents you are."

Mom's face lit up immediately. She reached out to smooth a strand of Adela's hair.

Dad patted her shoulder.

Together, they walked Adela back onto the stage.

The livestream began. Comments flooded the screen.

Adela gushed about how her parents had stayed by her side all night, never leaving for even a moment.

Then one comment rose to the top:

"Wait—don't they have a biological daughter too?"

"If they were all busy protecting Adela, what happened to their real daughter?"

The atmosphere in the room went still.

Dad's expression turned cold.

He faced the camera, his tone measured but severe:

"She's perfectly fine."

"Not only is she fine, but during the entire operation, she repeatedly interfered with police work."

"Flooding the emergency hotline. Feeding them false information."

"She nearly caused a serious incident."

Mom added, disappointment barely contained in her voice:

"That kind of behavior is utterly irresponsible."

"Even though she's our daughter, we won't shield her. We intend to pursue legal action."

"If she deserves a sentence, she'll get one. If she belongs in prison, that's where she'll go."

The moment she finished, the comment section exploded.

Emotions caught fire instantly.

Some praised my parents for their integrity—putting justice above family.

Others called me subhuman.

Within minutes, my name, photos, and personal details were dug up and spread everywhere.

Someone photoshopped an old picture of me into a black-and-white memorial portrait, streaked with fake blood.

Curses flooded in. Countless people vowed to hunt down this "waste of oxygen" and teach me a lesson.

"Someone like Gertrude Fox deserves to die. What a shame—if only she'd been the one the killer got."

Adela waved her hands frantically at the camera:

"Everyone, please don't do this..."

She turned to our parents, eyes glistening:

"This is all my fault..."

But Dad's expression stayed frozen.

"How could any of this be your fault? The internet's right."

"If she hadn't been calling nonstop, jamming the hotline, maybe we would've received useful leads sooner. Maybe we'd have caught him by now."

"Having a daughter like her—might as well consider her dead."

I listened to Dad's words and smiled bitterly.

"Dad, you don't have to be angry anymore. I'm already dead."

The words had barely left his mouth.

A side door of the press hall burst open, and a medical examiner stumbled in.

His face was ashen, forehead slick with sweat, voice shaking:

"Mr. Fox... a septic tank in Southside—they just pulled out body parts. Female."

"The victim... appears to be your daughter. Gertrude Fox."