Uncle John panicked. His hand came down hard and smacked Kian right across his cheek. "Idiot! Is this how you welcome your sister? Get out of my sight!"
Kian glared at us, clutching his face, too humiliated to talk back.
My friend and I exchanged a victorious look.
We won the first battle!
But just as we stepped through the door, we froze.
There she was—the fake daughter, Trisha—standing on a stool, rope tied to the chandelier, crying as she prepared to hang herself.
Oh, please. A pity act already?
Before anyone else could react, I charged forward and shouted, "How dare you! Who told you it's okay to swing indoors?!"
My best friend slid in with a perfect tackle, kicking both the stool and the girl off balance.
Before Trisha could even loop the rope around her neck, she tumbled to the floor in a most ungraceful heap.
"Ah!" she screamed, clutching her arm as everyone rushed toward her.
When the family saw the rope and stool, their faces turned ashen with alarm.
"Trisha, what on earth were you doing?" Aunt Laura cried.