The 4 Dreams That Burned My Life To The Ground | Full Rebirth Thriller
Fiona Story Hub Exclusive | Betrayal, Greed, and a Conspiracy Woven in Ghostly Lies
I died with a bullet through my skull, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth, and a question I would never get to answer screaming in my head. Why? Why had the woman who raised me, who loved me more than anyone else in this world, sent me four dreams that turned my life into a living hell, then left me to die in a pool of my own blood?
The last thing I saw before the black took me was her face. Eleanor. My godmother, my guardian angel, the only person who’d ever chosen me. She stood over me, a gun in her hand, a cold, cruel smile on her lips, and pulled the trigger.
Then I gasped awake.
My chest heaving, my hands shaking so bad I could barely feel the sheets beneath me. I stared up at the water-stained ceiling of my childhood bedroom, the smell of hay and diesel from the family farm drifting through the open window. The Texas sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, painting the sky in soft streaks of pink and orange.
I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, my fingers slipping twice before I got a grip. The screen lit up, and the date hit me like a freight train.
June 14th.
The day before the first dream. The day it all started.
I was back. I’d been reborn. Given a second chance to fix it all. To save the people I loved. To outrun the nightmare that had killed me.
And this time? I wasn’t going to listen to a single word Eleanor said in my dreams.
Let me tell you how I died the first time. How those four dreams ripped my family apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but blood and regret.
Eleanor was my mom’s older sister. She’d raised me from the time I was six years old, when my parents decided they’d rather drink and chase quick money schemes than take care of a kid. She was a legend in our small Texas town, a sharp, kind woman who’d built a thriving cattle ranch from nothing, who’d taught me to drive a tractor, balance a checkbook, and stand up for myself when the kids at school made fun of me for living in a trailer on the farm. She was the only person who’d ever loved me unconditionally. When she passed away two years before the first dream, I thought my world had ended. I had no idea the worst was still to come.
The first dream came on June 15th, the night before I was supposed to lock in our corn crop insurance for the year. I fell asleep, and suddenly she was there, sitting on the edge of my bed, just like she used to when I was sick as a kid. Her silver hair was pulled back in the braid she’d worn every day, her blue eyes soft and urgent.
Seraphina, she said, her voice warm but sharp, like she was sharing a secret only the dead could know. You have to listen to me. This fall, a southern corn rust plague is gonna sweep through this entire county. Every single stalk in those fields is gonna rot in the dirt. You won’t get a penny for it. The insurance won’t pay out enough to save the farm.
My throat went dry. Our 150 acres of corn was the only thing we had. Dad had shattered his leg in a farming accident the year before, and he couldn’t work the oil rig jobs he’d relied on for extra cash. The corn paid the mortgage, put food on the table, and covered my tuition at Texas A&M. It was our lifeline.
Cut the corn while it’s still green, she said, leaning in like her life depended on it. Sell it as silage to the dairy farms up in Amarillo. Take that money, and lease the three cold storage warehouses out by the highway. Fill them with frozen beef. The feed prices are gonna skyrocket with the rust, ranchers will sell off their herds, and beef prices are gonna double by Christmas. It’s the only way to keep this family afloat.
I woke up gasping, her voice still ringing in my ears.
Back then, I believed her. Why wouldn’t I? She’d never steered me wrong in my life. She knew farming, she knew this land, better than anyone I’d ever met. So I ran straight to my dad, Clay, at the barn the next morning.
I was terrified to tell him. A dream from a dead woman? It sounded crazy. But he looked at me, his tired eyes soft, and he believed me.
My Sera’s a smart girl, he told the neighbors, when they laughed at us for cutting down 150 acres of perfectly healthy corn two months before harvest. She’s studying agribusiness in college. She knows more about this stuff than any of us old timers. I trust her with everything.
I’d been so proud, back then. So sure I was saving my family.
And then the fall came.
There was no rust plague. Not a single stalk in the county was affected. The corn around us grew tall and strong, and farmers brought in record yields that year. Instead, the unthinkable happened. A massive outbreak of mad cow disease hit the Midwest. The USDA banned the sale of most beef products across state lines. Prices crashed overnight, dropping 90% in three days.
Worse, the cooling system in the warehouses failed. I later found out someone had cut the wires. All the frozen beef we’d stuffed into those units spoiled, rotting in the Texas heat. We lost every single dollar we’d made from the silage. We’d taken out a $200,000 loan against the farm to buy the beef, and now we couldn’t make the payments. The bank sent us a foreclosure notice. Dad had a heart attack from the stress, and spent a week in the hospital. My mom, Ruth, cried herself to sleep every night, but every morning she’d put on a smile and tell me it wasn’t my fault.
I’d never felt so much guilt in my life. I’d destroyed the only thing my family had. All because I’d listened to a dream.
That’s when the second dream came.
I fell asleep in the hospital chair next to dad’s bed, and there she was again. Eleanor. Her face sad, sympathetic, like she felt every bit of my pain.
Oh, Sera, she said, her voice soft with pity. I’m so sorry this hit so hard. But there’s still a way to fix this. To save your family.
My hands curled into fists. I wanted to scream at her. To ask her why she’d lied to me. But I held my tongue. I wanted to hear what she had to say. I was desperate.
Out at the old hunting cabin on the west edge of the property, she said, under the stone hearth, your great-grandpa buried a crate of rare 1800s gold coins. He hid them there during the Great Depression, for a rainy day. This is that rainy day. Go dig it up, Sera. It’s worth more than enough to pay off every debt you have, and keep your family safe for the rest of your lives.
I woke up with a gasp, hope flaring in my chest. This was our second chance. I ran home that same day, and told my parents. Dad, still weak from his heart attack, grabbed his shovel and a crowbar, and we drove out to the old cabin.
We dug for an hour, our hands blistering, until our shovels hit wood. A heavy, old crate, sealed tight with iron bands. Dad pried it open with the crowbar.
What we found inside wasn’t gold coins. It was guns. Dozens of fully automatic military rifles, silencers, and thousands of rounds of armor-piercing ammunition. Enough to put someone away for decades in federal prison.
Before we could even process what we were seeing, the doors of the cabin burst open. Agents from the ATF, guns drawn, body armor on, swarmed us. They’d been watching the cabin for months, waiting for someone to come for the guns. Dad was tackled to the ground, handcuffed, dragged away before I could even say a word.
The lead agent pulled me aside, his face hard. Your dad is facing federal charges for possession of unregistered machine guns, conspiracy to traffic firearms, and obstruction of justice. He’s looking at 25 years to life, no chance of parole.
My mom collapsed right there in the dirt, her body going limp. The doctors said she’d had a massive stroke, caused by the stress. She was rushed to the local hospital, unresponsive, her brain swelling fast. The doctors told us there was nothing they could do for her there. She needed a specialist, and fast.
That’s when the third dream came.
I fell asleep on the floor of the ICU waiting room, and Eleanor was there again. Her face tight with worry, her hands reaching out like she wanted to hold me.
Sera, she said, her voice urgent, bordering on frantic. Your mom is dying. The only doctor in the state who can save her is Dr. Elias Hale, the top neurosurgeon at Houston Methodist. He’s the only one with the skill to relieve the pressure on her brain. If you don’t get him here in the next three hours, your mom is never going to wake up. Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. Go.
I woke up screaming, the nurses running in to check on me. I didn’t care that I looked crazy. I grabbed my keys, and drove three hours to Houston as fast as my truck would go. I ran into the hospital, straight to the neurosurgery wing, and dropped to my knees in front of Dr. Hale.
Please, I begged, tears streaming down my face. My mom is dying. She’s in a coma after a massive stroke, in the hospital in Lubbock. She needs emergency brain surgery, and you’re the only one who can save her. I’ll do anything. Just please come with me.
Dr. Hale stared down at me, surprised. He helped me stand up, his face serious. He asked for her medical records, I sent them to him right away, and he nodded, grabbing his coat.
Okay, he said. Let’s go. I can get a medical helicopter. We’ll be there in 45 minutes.
I almost collapsed with relief. I was gonna save my mom. I was gonna fix this.
What I didn’t know was that at the exact same time we lifted off from the Houston helipad, my fiancé, Kace, was in a terrible accident on the offshore oil rig he worked on. A pipe had burst, slamming into his head, causing a traumatic brain bleed. He’d been airlifted to Houston Methodist, straight into the trauma bay. Dr. Hale was the only surgeon on call with the skill to perform the life-saving procedure he needed.
Because I’d taken Dr. Hale away, Kace bled out on the operating table. He was dead before the doctor could even get back to Houston.
And then, an hour after we landed in Lubbock, Dr. Hale came out of the operating room, and pulled off his mask. His face was grave.
I’m so sorry, he said. The delay was too long. The swelling in her brain was too severe. We couldn’t save her.
I ran into the ICU room, and got to her just in time to see her eyes flutter open. She looked at me, her gaze filled with disappointment and pain, and whispered the words that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Why did you kill us, Sera?
She flatlined seconds later.
I’d lost everything. My dad in federal prison, my mom dead, the love of my life dead. The farm was gone, foreclosed on by the bank. I had nothing left.
That’s when the fourth dream came.
I was staying in Kace’s old trailer, numb to the world, when I fell asleep. Eleanor was there again. But this time, she wasn’t soft, or kind, or sympathetic. Her face was cold, hard, her eyes black as tar.
You failed them, she said, her voice like gravel. You killed your family. You killed Kace. You don’t deserve to live.
I woke up screaming, just as the front door of the trailer burst open. Kace’s mom, Lorna, and her two grown sons, stormed in. Lorna was holding a shotgun, her face red with rage, screaming that I’d killed her baby, that I was a monster who deserved to die.
I ran. I ran out the back door, across the field, into the old barn. They chased me, cornered me in the hay loft. Lorna raised the shotgun, and I looked into her eyes, and I saw the same cold hatred I’d seen in Eleanor’s face in the dream.
The last thing I heard was the blast of the shotgun. The last thing I felt was the bullet tearing through my skull. The last thing I saw was Eleanor’s face, smiling, as the dark took me.
And then I woke up. Back in my bed, on June 14th. The day before the first dream.
This time, I knew better. This time, I wasn’t going to let a dream destroy me.
I rolled over, pulled the covers over my head, and tried to breathe. I told myself over and over again that it had been a nightmare. That the rust plague wasn’t real. That the gold coins weren’t real. That I could save my family, just by doing nothing. By not listening to Eleanor.
But I couldn’t shake the fear. The memory of dying was too fresh, too real. So I got up before the sun, and I made a plan.
I wasn’t going to cut the corn. I wasn’t going to lease the cold storage. I was going to protect that crop, better than anyone had ever protected it before. I grabbed the keys to the tractor, and the jug of broad-spectrum fungicide I’d saved up for, the stuff that kills every strain of corn rust known to man. I spent the entire day driving up and down those rows, spraying every single inch of our 150 acres. I checked every stalk, pulled every weed, tested the soil, made sure those plants were as healthy as they could possibly be.
Dad found me at sunset, wiping sweat off my brow, covered in dirt and chemicals. He laughed, leaning against the tractor.
What are you up to, kiddo? he asked, a smile on his face. You’re out here working harder than I do.
I forced a smile back. Just being careful, Dad. I heard there’s a chance of rust moving up from Mexico this year. I want to be ready.
He shook his head, but his eyes were warm. You and Eleanor were always the same. Cared more about this land than anyone.
My chest ached at the sound of her name. I didn’t say anything. Just climbed down from the tractor, and followed him back to the house.
That night, I didn’t drink the chamomile tea mom always made me before bed. I told her I wasn’t tired, that I was gonna study for my finals. I locked my bedroom door, and stayed awake until 3 a.m., my eyes fixed on the door, waiting for the dream to come.
Eventually, sleep took me. And there she was. Eleanor. Sitting on the edge of my bed, just like before.
Seraphina, she said, her voice soft and urgent. You have to listen to me. This fall, a southern corn rust plague is gonna sweep through this entire county. Every single stalk in those fields is gonna rot in the dirt.
I didn’t say a word. I just stared at her, my heart hammering in my chest.
Cut the corn while it’s still green, she said. Sell it as silage to the dairy farms up in Amarillo. Take that money, and lease the cold storage warehouses out by the highway. Fill them with frozen beef. It’s the only way to keep this family afloat.
I woke up the second her voice faded. I didn’t gasp. I didn’t scream. I just laid there, staring at the ceiling. I’d done it. I’d heard the dream, and I wasn’t gonna act on it. I was gonna break the cycle.
For the next four months, I didn’t let up. I checked those fields every single day. I watered the rows when it got dry, fought off every weed and bug that came near, rotated the crops, tested the soil every week. By October, the corn was taller than I was, the stalks thick and strong, the ears full and heavy. The best crop we’d ever grown.
The local grain buyer came out to look at it, and he whistled when he walked the rows.
This is the best corn in the panhandle, Sera, he said, clapping me on the shoulder. I’ll give you top dollar. $8.50 a bushel, sight unseen. You got a deal?
Dad’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. He grabbed the man’s hand and shook it hard.
You got yourself a deal, he said. We’ll have it harvested and ready for you first thing tomorrow morning.
That night, Mom fried up chicken and mashed potatoes, her best meal. We sat at the kitchen table, laughing, talking about what we’d do with the money. Pay off the remaining mortgage on the farm. Fix up the house. Send me to finish my degree at A&M. For the first time since I’d woken up reborn, I breathed easy.
I’d done it. I’d beaten the dream. I’d saved my family. Eleanor’s lies hadn’t worked this time.
We went to bed early, ready for harvest day. I fell asleep with a smile on my face, for the first time in two lifetimes.
And then I woke up to screaming.
It was Dad’s voice. Raw, broken, screaming from the fields.
I was out of bed before I even registered it, bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor, not even stopping to grab a jacket. I ran out the front door, across the yard, and skidded to a halt at the edge of the field.
And my blood turned to ice.
What had been 150 acres of tall, healthy corn the day before was now a wasteland. The stalks were toppled over, chewed through at the base, the ears torn apart, the kernels scattered in the dirt. A writhing, black sea of corn rootworms covered every inch of the field, millions of them, devouring everything in their path.
It was like a tornado had hit. But it wasn’t a tornado. It was bugs. Bugs that shouldn’t have been there. Bugs that the insecticide I’d sprayed should have killed. Bugs that had never touched any of the neighbor’s fields. Only ours.
Dad was on his knees in the dirt, waving his arms at the bugs, trying to chase them away. It was useless. They just swarmed around him, not even caring. He fell back, sitting in the dirt, his face ashen.
It’s gone, he whispered, his voice broken. All of it. The crop, the money, the house. Your tuition. Everything. It’s all gone.
I felt my knees give out. I sank down in the dirt next to him, staring at the destruction.
Why?
I’d done everything right. I’d ignored the dream. I’d protected the crop. I’d sprayed for rust, for bugs, for everything. There hadn’t been a rootworm infestation this bad in our county in 30 years. And even if there had been, the insecticide should have wiped them out.
And why only our fields? The neighbor’s corn, just across the fence line, was perfectly fine. Tall, green, untouched.
It didn’t make sense. Unless…
No. I pushed the thought away. It couldn’t be.
That night, Dad left the house after dinner. He didn’t say where he was going. But I knew. He was going to my uncles, to beg for money. To borrow enough to keep the bank from foreclosing, to keep a roof over our heads.
Dad had always been proud. Too proud to ask for handouts. He’d taught me to work for everything I had, to never owe anyone anything. The fact that he was out there, begging his brothers for money, made my chest hurt so bad I could barely breathe.
I sat in my bedroom, staring at the wall, until sleep finally pulled me under.
And there she was again. Eleanor.
She was standing in the middle of the ruined field, the broken corn around her, her face sad and sympathetic.
Oh, Sera, she said, her voice soft with pity. I tried to warn you. But there’s still a way to fix this. To save your family.
My hands curled into fists. I wanted to scream at her. To ask her why she was doing this. But I held my tongue. I wanted to hear what she had to say. I wanted to know what the next trap was.
Out at the old hunting cabin on the west edge of the property, she said, under the stone hearth, your great-grandpa buried a crate of rare 1800s gold coins. He hid them there during the Great Depression, for a rainy day. This is that rainy day. Go dig it up, Sera. It’s worth more than enough to pay off every debt you have, and keep your family safe for the rest of your lives.
I woke up with a gasp, my heart hammering.
In my first life, this was the dream that had destroyed my dad. I’d run to him, so excited, so sure we were saved. And I’d led him straight into a federal prison cell.
This time, I knew better. I wasn’t going to lead my dad straight into a trap. I wasn’t going to let him get anywhere near that crate.
But I also knew I couldn’t just leave it there. If the ATF was watching it, someone was going to get caught. And if I didn’t do anything, Dad would find a way to get to it. He was desperate. Desperate people do stupid things.
So I picked up the phone. And I called the ATF.
The agent on the line was quiet for a long time after I spoke.
You’re saying there’s a suspicious package buried under the hearth of the old hunting cabin on the Voss property off Highway 87? he asked, his voice sharp.
Yes, I said, my hands shaking. I think it’s something illegal. Unregistered firearms, maybe. I don’t want my family to get in trouble for it.
He told me they’d send a team out to check it. I hung up the phone, and leaned against the wall, breathing hard. I’d done it. I’d neutralized the trap. I’d kept Dad away from the crate, and let the ATF take care of it. No one would get hurt. No one would go to prison.
Or so I thought.
That afternoon, a black SUV pulled up the driveway, followed by two county sheriff’s cars. Four agents got out, walking up to the front door. I opened it, ready to thank them, ready to hear that they’d seized the guns and no one was in trouble.
But the first thing I saw was the wooden crate. The same crate from my first life. The agents were carrying it between them, setting it down on the porch.
My blood ran cold. Why were they bringing it here?
Mr. Voss? the lead agent said, looking past me, at Dad, who’d walked up behind me. Can you step outside, please?
Dad frowned, confused. What’s going on here? What’s that crate?
The agent nodded at the crate, and another agent popped the locks. The lid swung open.
And I froze.
Inside wasn’t guns. It was gold. Dozens of rare 1800s gold coins, glinting in the sun, each one worth thousands of dollars. Exactly what Eleanor had said.
What the hell? Dad breathed, stepping forward, his eyes wide. Where did this come from?
Before he could take another step, two agents grabbed him, slamming him against the porch rail, yanking his hands behind his back. A pair of handcuffs clicked shut around his wrists.
What are you doing?! I screamed, lunging forward. An agent stepped in front of me, blocking my path. Let him go!
These coins, the lead agent said, his voice cold, were stolen from the Texas State Bank in Austin during the 1989 armed robbery. Two bank tellers were shot and killed that day. We’ve been looking for them ever since. We have witness statements and evidence placing your great-grandfather, Jacob Voss, as the leader of the robbery.
He stared at Dad, his eyes hard. And your reaction just now? The way you looked at those coins? It’s clear you knew they were here. You’ve been hiding them for 35 years. You’re under arrest for possession of stolen property, accessory to capital murder, and obstruction of justice.
No, I whispered, my legs going weak. That’s not true. He didn’t know. I’m the one who called you. I’m the one who told you where it was!
The agent looked at me, his expression complicated. We appreciate you helping us recover the stolen property, ma’am. But you should know, this conviction will follow your family for the rest of your life. You’ll never be able to work in law enforcement, get a government job, or even qualify for most professional licenses. But you did the right thing, helping us catch a killer.
I stared at him, my mouth open. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
I turned to Dad, my eyes filling with tears. Dad, tell them it’s not true. Tell them you didn’t know about this.
Dad looked at me. His face was white, his eyes filled with shock, and hurt, and something that looked like guilt. He didn’t say a word.
Dad? I whispered. Please.
He closed his eyes. And he told me the truth.
I was 17, he said, his voice broken. Your great-grandpa came to me that night. He told me he had a crate to hide, that it would set our family up for life. I helped him bury it under that hearth. When I opened it, and saw the coins, I knew what he’d done. I knew about the robbery, about the tellers. But your mom was pregnant with you. I couldn’t let him go to prison. I couldn’t let you grow up without a family. So I said nothing. I hid it. For 35 years.
I felt like the ground had opened up under my feet.
It was true. Every word Eleanor had said was true. The gold was real. But why? Why in my first life had it been guns? Why had the trap changed, just because I’d changed my choices?
I watched, numb, as the agents led Dad away, putting him in the back of the SUV. He didn’t look back.
And then I heard a sound behind me. A gasp. A soft, broken sound.
I turned around. Mom was standing in the doorway, her face white as a sheet. She’d heard every word.
Her eyes rolled back in her head. She collapsed to the floor, a trickle of blood coming from the corner of her mouth.
Mom! I screamed, running to her. I dropped to my knees, grabbing her, shaking her. She was unconscious, her pulse thready, her breathing shallow.
This was exactly what had happened in my first life. The same scene. The same nightmare.
I grabbed my phone, called 911, and screamed for an ambulance. I held Mom’s hand, sobbing, as the paramedics loaded her into the ambulance, rushing her to the local hospital.
They told me she’d had a massive stroke. Her brain was swelling fast. She needed emergency brain surgery, right now. And the only surgeon in the state who could do the procedure, the only one with the skill to save her life, was Dr. Elias Hale, at Houston Methodist Hospital.
I collapsed in the waiting room chair, my head in my hands. And then I fell asleep.
And there she was. Eleanor. Again.
Her face was filled with worry, her hands reaching out to me like she wanted to comfort me.
Sera, she said, her voice urgent. You have to go to Houston. Right now. Only Dr. Elias Hale can save your mom. If you don’t get him here in the next two hours, your mom is going to die. Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. Go.
I woke up with a start, the paramedic shaking my shoulder, telling me we’d arrived at the hospital.
In my first life, this was the dream that had destroyed everything else.
I’d driven to Houston, thrown myself at Dr. Hale’s feet, begged him to come save my mom. He’d agreed. And in doing so, I’d signed Kace’s death warrant.
This time, I knew better. This time, I could save them both.
I looked at the clock on the wall. It was 11:30 AM. In my first life, Kace’s accident had been at 1:30 PM. Two hours from now. I had time.
I grabbed my phone, and called Kace. He picked up on the first ring.
Baby? he said, his voice warm and worried. I just heard what happened with your dad. I’m on my way to the hospital right now. Is your mom okay?
Tears filled my eyes. Kace. Sweet, kind Kace, who’d loved me even when I had nothing, who’d worked two jobs to help me pay for tuition, who’d held me when I cried about Eleanor’s death. I’d gotten him killed in my first life. I wasn’t going to let that happen again.
Kace, listen to me, I said, my voice firm. I need you to do exactly what I say, okay? No matter what. I need you to go home, right now. Lock the doors, and stay inside. Don’t get in your car. Don’t go to the rig. Don’t go anywhere. Not for any reason. Promise me.
There was a pause on the line. He didn’t ask why. He just trusted me.
Okay, he said, soft and steady. I promise. I’ll go home right now, and I won’t leave. I’ll wait for you to call me. Whatever you need, I’m here.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Okay. I love you.
I love you too, he said. And he hung up.
He was safe. I’d kept him safe. Now I just had to save my mom.
I ran out of the hospital, jumped in my beat up old truck, and floored it towards Houston. I drove 95 miles an hour the whole way, weaving through traffic, my hands white on the wheel. I got to Houston Methodist in an hour and 15 minutes, a full 15 minutes before Kace’s accident was supposed to happen.
I ran into the hospital, straight to the neurosurgery wing. I found Dr. Hale in the hallway, looking at a patient’s chart. I didn’t hesitate. I dropped to my knees in front of him.
Please, I begged, tears streaming down my face. My mom is dying. She’s in critical condition at the Lubbock Methodist Hospital. She needs emergency brain surgery after a massive stroke, and you’re the only one who can save her. Please. I’ll do anything. Just please come with me.
Dr. Hale stared down at me, surprised. He helped me stand up, his face serious.
What’s her name? he asked. What’s her condition?
I told him. Every detail. Her stroke, her brain swelling, the time we had left. He nodded, grabbing his coat.
Okay, he said. Let’s go. I can get a medical helicopter. We’ll be there in 40 minutes.
I almost collapsed with relief. Thank you. Thank you so much.
We ran to the helipad. The helicopter took off immediately, flying west towards Lubbock. We landed at the hospital 38 minutes later. Dr. Hale ran straight into the operating room, scrubbing in, taking over the surgery.
I sat in the waiting room, my hands folded, praying. I’d done it. I’d saved Mom. I’d saved Kace. I’d beaten the dream. I’d broken the cycle.
Three hours later, the operating room doors opened. Dr. Hale walked out, pulling off his mask. He smiled at me.
She’s going to be okay, he said. The surgery was a success. She’s stable. She’ll make a full recovery.
I burst into tears. Sobbing, happy, relieved tears. I’d done it. I’d saved her. My mom was alive.
I walked into the ICU room a few minutes later. She was lying in the bed, her eyes fluttering open. She saw me, and her face tightened. She looked away.
She was still angry. Still hurt about Dad. But she was alive. That’s all that mattered.
I pulled out my phone, to call Kace. To tell him the good news. To tell him I’d kept him safe.
I dialed his number. It went straight to voicemail.
I frowned. I dialed again. Straight to voicemail. Again and again, 10 times in a row. Straight to voicemail.
A cold, sick feeling settled in my stomach.
No. He’d promised. He’d said he’d stay home. He wouldn’t have left.
And then I heard it. A commotion in the hallway. Shouting. My name.
I turned around. And there she was. Lorna. Kace’s mom. She was storming down the hallway, her face red with rage, her eyes wild.
Seraphina! she screamed. You bitch! You killed my son!
My blood turned to ice.
What? I whispered. No. That’s not possible. I told him to stay home. He promised.
Lorna stopped in front of me, her chest heaving. She laughed, a cold, bitter sound.
You told him to stay put? she screamed. Oh, that’s rich! He stood on the side of the highway for an hour, waiting for you! He said you told him to meet you there! A drunk driver hit him head on. He’s dead, Sera. He’s dead because of you!
I couldn’t breathe.
No. That’s not true. I never told him to meet me anywhere.
And then I saw it. On her wrist. A diamond tennis bracelet. The one Kace had designed himself, the one he’d been planning to give her for her 50th birthday. The one he’d told me, a week before, that he had to pick up from the jeweler in Houston that day. The one the jeweler had said, over and over, could only be picked up by Kace himself, with his ID and his fingerprint. No exceptions. Not until 2 PM that day.
It was 1:45 PM.
If Kace is dead, how did he pick up the bracelet? How is it on your wrist right now? Unless he’s not dead at all. Unless he’s hiding somewhere, waiting for this to be over. Waiting to split Eleanor’s money with you.
Lorna’s face went white. She tried to hide her wrist behind her back, but it was too late. Everyone had seen it. Everyone had heard me.
And then I turned. To the doorway of the ICU room. To the man standing there. My dad.
The man who was supposed to be in federal custody, on his way to Austin.
Don’t act surprised, Dad, I said, my voice shaking with rage. You can drop the act now. It’s over.
He stared at me, his face hard. I don’t know what you’re talking about.
No? I said. Let’s talk about the rootworms. I sprayed every inch of that field with insecticide. The strongest stuff on the market. There’s no way those bugs should have been there. Unless someone let them go. Someone who snuck out in the middle of the night, and dumped millions of them on our corn. Someone who was willing to destroy our entire crop, just to make me desperate. Just to make me listen to the dream.
His jaw tightened.
And the gold, I said. You knew it was there. You knew it was stolen. You set me up. You knew if I called the ATF, they’d find it, and you’d go to prison. You wanted me to feel guilty. You wanted to break me. Just like you did in my first life, with the guns. You planted those too, didn’t you? You called the ATF, told them when we’d be there. You were willing to spend the rest of your life in prison, just to make me hate myself. Just to make me kill myself.
And then I turned to Mom. The woman who’d just taken a knife for me. The woman I’d risked everything to save.
And you, I said, my voice breaking. You were in on it too. Weren’t you?
She stared up at me from the floor, her eyes filled with tears. Sera, no. I would never hurt you.
No? I said. Then why did you keep drugging me?
The room went silent.
Every night, I said, my voice cold. Every night, you made me a cup of chamomile tea before bed. You put something in it. Something that made me have vivid dreams. Something that made me suggestible. You’d sit by my bed, while I was half asleep, and whisper in my ear. Tell me about the rust plague. The gold. Dr. Hale. You made me think it was Eleanor’s voice. You made me think it was a dream. But it was you. All along. It was always you.
Tears streamed down her face. But she didn’t deny it.
Why? I screamed, the pain of two lifetimes breaking through. Why are you doing this to me? I’m your daughter!
She stood up, the blood still pouring from her shoulder, her face twisting with rage and hatred. The kind, loving mom I’d known my whole life was gone. In her place was a stranger.
Your daughter? she screamed. You were never our daughter! You were hers! That woman stole you from us! She took you when you were six, raised you like you were her own! She filled your head with ideas, made you think you were better than us! Better than the parents who gave you life!
She stepped towards me, her hands clenched into fists.
She left everything to you, you know. Every single thing. Her ranch in the hill country, her jewelry, the trust fund, the $3.2 million in the bank. All of it. But there’s a catch. You can’t touch any of it until your 30th birthday. And only if you’re alive. If you die before then? It all goes to us. Your next of kin.
Dad stepped forward, his face hard with anger.
We gave you life, Sera. We fed you, clothed you, put a roof over your head. And what did we get? Nothing. That woman looked down on me. Called me a drunk, a loser, a no good father. She took you away from us, and left us with nothing. We were just supposed to sit back and watch you live a life of luxury, while we rotted away on this farm?
Mom laughed, a bitter, ugly sound.
We didn’t want to kill you. Not at first. We just wanted you to break. To feel so guilty, so worthless, that you’d do it yourself. That you’d kill yourself, and we’d get everything, and no one would ever blame us. We’d be the grieving parents, who lost their daughter to a terrible tragedy.
The dreams, the corn, the gold, the hospital. It was all a show. All to make me think I was cursed. All to make me think I was the one destroying my family. All to make me end my own life.
Kace, I whispered, my heart breaking. He was in on it too. Wasn’t he?
Mom smiled. Of course he was. He never loved you, Sera. He loved the money. He was gonna marry you, wait for you to turn 30, and then kill you himself. Split the money with his mom. We just gave him a head start.
And then the hallway doors burst open.
Kace stood there, his face white with panic. He was alive. Unhurt.
Mom! he screamed. The cops are here! They’re surrounding the hospital!
He’d been hiding in the stairwell, listening. Watching.
A second later, a team of police officers ran down the hallway, guns drawn. They surrounded Mom, Dad, Lorna, and Kace, slamming them against the wall, handcuffing them.
The lead officer walked up to me. He nodded.
We got your recording, Ms. Voss, he said. All of it. We’ve got warrants for their arrest, and we found the drugs in your house. The hypnotics, the LSD, everything. They’re not going anywhere.
I’d recorded it. All of it. On the way to Houston, when I’d started to realize what was happening. When I’d noticed that the dreams only happened after I drank Mom’s tea. When I’d realized that every trap was perfectly designed to play on my worst fears. I’d called the police, sent them everything I had. The recording of my call to Kace, the timeline of the dreams, everything. I’d told them to meet me at the hospital.
I’d known. Deep down, I’d known.
The officers led them away. Dad didn’t look at me. Mom screamed at me, calling me a traitor, a whore, a bitch. Kace stared at me, his eyes filled with hatred. Lorna spat at me, as the officers dragged her past.
And then they were gone.
The rest of it passed in a blur. The police statements, the doctors patching up Mom’s wound before she was taken to jail, the state dropping the murder charges against Dad when they realized he’d been set up, only to arrest him again for conspiracy to commit murder, for planting the guns, for the fraud.
All four of them were sentenced to decades in prison. Dad got 50 years. Mom got 45. Kace and Lorna got 40 each. They’d die behind bars.
I didn’t go to any of the sentencings. I didn’t want to see their faces ever again.
On my 30th birthday, I walked into the bank in Austin, alone. I had the key Eleanor had given me, when I was 16, the one she’d told me to keep safe, no matter what. The password, the one only she and I knew. My birthday, and the day she’d taught me to ride a horse.
I opened the safety deposit box.
Inside was stacks of cash, bearer bonds, jewelry, the deed to the ranch in the hill country. And a letter. Sealed, with my name on it, in Eleanor’s handwriting.
I opened it, and read.
My dearest Seraphina,
If you’re reading this, you’re 30 years old. You’re a woman now. Strong, smart, and brave. Just like I always knew you’d be.
I left you all of this, not because I wanted to make you rich. But because I wanted you to have a choice. To be able to live the life you want to live, not the life anyone else tells you to live. To never have to rely on anyone who doesn’t love you for who you are.
I know your parents. I know their hearts. I know they’re greedy, and bitter, and angry. I raised your mom, and I failed her. I couldn’t make her see that love is worth more than money. That family is about care, not control.
I took you in, because I was scared. Scared they’d hurt you. Scared they’d break you. Scared they’d kill you, for what I’d left you. That’s why I set the lock on the box. That’s why you couldn’t touch it until you were 30. I hoped that by then, you’d be strong enough to handle it. To see them for who they really are.
I need you to know this, my sweet girl. Be kind. But never be naive. Be forgiving. But never be weak. Love deeply. But never give anyone the power to break you.
I will love you, always and forever. Even when I’m not with you.
Eleanor.
I sat in that bank vault, and I cried. For the little girl who’d lost her godmother. For the woman who’d been betrayed by everyone she’d ever loved. For the two lifetimes of pain. For the godmother who’d loved me enough to protect me, even from beyond the grave.
I sold the farm that day. I never wanted to see it again. I moved to the hill country, to the ranch Eleanor had left me. It’s on the banks of the Guadalupe River, with a view of the hills, and a garden full of the bluebonnets she’d loved so much.
I wrote a book about what happened to me. About the dreams, the betrayal, the lies. It became a bestseller. I got movie deals, speaking engagements, more money than I ever could have spent. But none of that mattered. What mattered was that I was free.
I never heard from my family again. I never will.
On a sunny morning, I sit in my garden, sipping coffee, watching the river flow past. On my wrist is the silver bracelet Eleanor gave me, the one she’d had since she was a little girl.
The nightmare is over. The lies are done. I’m finally home.
And I know, somewhere, Eleanor is smiling.
