“Get it off my leg!” I shrieked, weeping so violently I was gasping for air. My dad assumed I was losing my grip on reality, and my stepmother smirked like she had already claimed victory.

It wasn't Vanessa. It was Marcus, the head of household security.

"You shouldn't be in here, Clara," Marcus said, his hand resting on the taser at his belt.

"Marcus, look at this," Clara said, holding up her phone. But before she could show him the photos, Marcus lunged.

He wasn't loyal to Arthur. He was on Vanessa's payroll.

Clara dodged his heavy grasp, using her momentum to shove him into the vanity. Perfume bottles shattered. Marcus growled, recovering quickly, and swung a heavy fist. Clara ducked, sweeping his legs out from under him with a brutal kick she’d learned subduing violent patients in the ER.

She bolted from the room, locking the heavy oak door behind her.

The next morning, Clara knew she had to go to the police. She strapped Leo into the backseat of her Volvo to take him to physical therapy, planning to drive straight to the precinct afterward.

As they navigated the steep, winding roads of the Hollywood Hills, Clara pressed the brake pedal to slow down for a sharp curve.

The pedal went straight to the floorboards. Nothing happened.

Panic surged. Clara pumped the brakes frantically. Zero resistance. The car was accelerating downhill.

"Hold on, Leo!" Clara screamed.

She couldn't risk the cliff side. She aimed the car toward the rocky embankment on the right, throwing the emergency brake and bracing for impact. The Volvo slammed into the dirt wall, airbags deploying with an explosive pop. Dust and smoke filled the cabin.