PART 1 — NO ONE KNEW RACHEL HAD BUILT HER DREAM KITCHEN WITH EVERY DOLLAR HER FAMILY TOLD HER SHE DIDN’T DESERVE

The first sound I heard when I opened my front door was not a voice.

It was the crack of stone splitting.

A sharp, violent sound.

Then another.

I dropped my keys on the entry table and walked toward the kitchen, already knowing something was wrong before I saw it.

Dust floated through the hallway like smoke.

My beautiful white oak cabinets were hanging open. One custom drawer lay broken on the floor. The marble island I had saved three years for had a crack running straight through the middle.

And standing beside it was my stepfather, Ray, both hands wrapped around a sledgehammer.

My sister Kimmy stood near the stove with her arms folded, smiling.

Like she had been waiting for me.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

Ray turned slowly. Sweat darkened his plaid shirt. The hammer rested against his shoulder like he had every right to be there.

Kimmy lifted her chin.

“You should thank us,” she said. “This kitchen was wasted

on you.”

I stared at her.

My own sister.

The woman who had begged me to let her family stay for one week because their apartment was “temporarily unlivable.”

One week.

That was what she promised.

Not demolition.

Not strangers dragging tools through my house.

Not my dream kitchen torn apart while I was at work.

I reached into my bag with shaking hands and pulled out my phone.

“Get out,” I said. “All of you. Get out of my house.”

Ray’s face hardened.

Kimmy rolled her eyes.

“You always think you’re better than us.”

I pressed three numbers.

Before I reached the second 1, Ray crossed the kitchen.

Fast.

His hand struck mine so hard the phone flew across the floor.

Then his fist hit my face.

I tasted blood before I hit the tile.