You’re nothing but an insect, just like your father,” my stepfather snarled before spraying pesticide directly into my face. At the hospital, while I struggled to breathe, my mother calmly told the doctor, “She accidentally did it to herself.”

Grant refused to cancel the Cedarbrook groundbreaking.

That was pure Grant.

Even with accounts frozen, lenders circling, investigators asking questions, and video of the kitchen attack in police custody, he believed a public stage could save him.

He invited the mayor.

Local reporters.

Investors.

Families from the neighborhood.

There were hard hats with the Cedarbrook logo, blue ribbons, miniature cupcakes, and a children’s choir scheduled to sing about community.

A preschool would eventually stand there, according to his brochures.

A preschool on land he had not honestly cleaned.

Dad and I watched the livestream from his living room.

I was not ready to be seen publicly.

Not yet.

My face had healed enough for strangers to pretend not to stare, which was almost worse.

Grant stepped to the podium wearing a navy suit and the humbled smile of a man prepared to discuss “unfortunate personal matters” before pivoting to progress.

“My family has recently endured a painful misunderstanding,” he began.

Dad reached for the remote.

I stopped him.

“No. Let him talk.”

Grant continued.

“False accusations can harm good work. But Cedarbrook Commons is bigger than gossip.”

That was when Detective Holt appeared at the edge of the frame.

She was not alone.

City inspectors.

Environmental officers.

Two federal agents.

Grant stopped mid-sentence.