"You take the bag and you leave — now!" Linda Curtis slammed the door so hard the framed charity photos rattled.
"Mom, you can't—" Ethel's voice broke into a practiced tremble. "She's been lying to us."
"She lied because that was her job," Linda said. "Marina, you were never meant to be one of us. You were a tool. A donor. A spare. We raised you until Ethel needed you gone."
Marina pushed her hair behind her ear like that could steady her voice. "A tool? That's what you call the kid you 'fostered' for twenty years?"
"Don't argue with me," Linda snapped and held up a glossy print. The photo was small, clinical: a newborn, a nurse, a name on a chart. "This is your file. You were brought here under the contract. The Curtis family paid for your placement to keep bloodline problems quiet. You were insurance."
Ethel let out a wet, wounded sound and tilted her head toward Marina. "I was always so fragile. They told me you were stable, reliable. But it's always been my right."
"Right," Marina repeated. Her mouth tasted bitter. She dropped the suitcase she'd been dragging across the carpet. "You sold me like furniture."
Ethel's smile sharpened. "We saved you a place. We gave you a home."
"Home," Marina said. "A word you use when you pick and choose people."
Linda's hand came out like a judge's gavel. "All your things belong to
