Chapter 4

Tom's words struck like a thunderbolt, ringing in my ears.

I looked at my right hand, covered in dirt and blood. The knuckles were severely swollen from rheumatoid arthritis, and my fingers trembled uncontrollably from the permanent nerve damage.

Eight years ago, these hands performed high-precision brain surgeries.

Now, I couldn't even grip a broom.

"Tom, please, don't fire me." I bent my back, discarding every ounce of my dignity, and grabbed the hem of Tom's shirt. "I don't need wages. Just give me some scraps and let me sleep in the back storage room. Please..."

Tom violently shook me off, throwing me back onto the damp, cold floor.

"Amara, I saw the news. You killed someone, and Julian and Chloe have been incredibly generous to you. Instead of being grateful, you humiliated them in public!"

"My pharmacy is in a tight-knit community. If the neighbors find out I hired a killer, who will buy medicine from me? Get out! Now!"

He tossed my battered backpack out into the street like garbage.

The zipper had broken back in prison. My few old clothes spilled into the muddy puddles, instantly stained black by the dirty water splashed by passing cars.

The storm finally broke, rain pouring down in sheets.

I clutched my soaked backpack, limping down the streets of the small town.

As I passed the corner convenience store, the young clerk who usually smiled and called me "Dr. Sterling" while asking for advice on cold meds was now pointing his phone at me, whispering to his coworker.

"See her? That's the ungrateful felon ex-wife from the news. She looks decent, but her heart is black. She actually tried to bully a pregnant woman."

"Stay away from her. People like her are bad luck. Absolutely disgusting."

He spat on the pavement, just inches from my foot.

I lowered my head, letting my wet hair cover my face, and ran into the rain.

I tried to find work elsewhere in town.

Clinics, pharmacies, even small diners.

But the moment I walked in, they would see my deformed hand.

Then they would look at the viral video playing on their phones, and their faces would instantly turn sour.

"Sorry, we don't hire murderers."

"Get lost. Don't ruin our business. You're bad luck!"

By midnight, the rain had stopped.

I had nowhere to go. I huddled under the rusted metal roof of a bus stop, shivering from the cold.

I pulled my right hand out of my sleeve, trying to touch it with my left.

Between my thumb and index finger, there was a jagged, hideous scar that looked like a centipede.

It happened on my first night in prison eight years ago. Several female inmates used rusty nails to pierce and shred my hand nerves, inch by inch.

That night, I fainted from the pain three times on the cold concrete floor.

I thought it was a random prison assault back then. But looking back now...

Who else but Julian and Chloe would be so terrified of my surgical hands?

They didn't just want me to take the fall. They wanted to permanently cripple me, ensuring I could never return to an operating table, never use my skills to clear my name!

I bit my lip so hard it bled, my nails digging deep into my palms.

Julian. Chloe.

You say you owe me, but you clearly want me dead!