The real murderer

I just dropped Dad, who has Alzheimer’s, off at the nursing home.

I got home and the nurse called: “Ms. Sarah Miller, why didn’t your father come in for his therapy session? Did something happen?”

I panicked: “Nurse Emily, I just dropped him off with you, don’t you remember?”

The nurse said seriously: “Ms. Miller, you can’t just say things like that, we haven’t seen you today at all!”

I was confused, rushed to the nursing home, and found Dad wasn’t there.

The other staff and families insisted they hadn’t seen me or my dad at the nursing home.

Security footage showed I hadn’t brought Dad in at all.

But I clearly handed him over to the nurse!

I had to call the police.

They found Dad’s body on a road near our house.

Surveillance footage showed me driving the car that hit him, then reversing and running him over repeatedly.

Mom held Dad’s body and yelled at me, calling me an ungrateful wretch.

My brother punched me, shouting: “He’s our father! He scrimped and saved for decades to put you through college, how could you do this?”

All the evidence pointed to me.

I became a pariah, a murderer.

My husband and child were doxxed online and died tragically at home.

I had a mental breakdown and jumped to my death.

But I never understood why everyone testified they hadn’t seen us when I clearly took Dad to the nursing home.

Why did the surveillance show me hitting Dad when I wasn’t even driving?

I woke up, back on the day I took Dad to the nursing home.

“Sis, Mom booked a table to celebrate my promotion. Dad’s all yours.”

My brother smirked, arm in arm with Mom.

Those familiar words snapped me back.

I was reborn.

Mom always favored my brother.

In my past life, they ditched me for a family dinner.

I had to take care of Dad, taking him to the nursing home alone.

Then he went missing and was killed by a car.

And I somehow became his murderer, committing suicide in my grief.

Looking at my brother’s smug face, I frowned.

After I got married, my brother took care of Mom and Dad.

I visited them when my brother got promoted.

That was the only time I took Dad to the nursing home, and that’s when it happened.

Could it really be a coincidence?

I hesitated, looking at them, and said seriously: “Dad’s therapy hasn’t been effective. Maybe I’ll stay home with him today and skip the nursing home.”

My brother looked at me impatiently: “Just say you don’t want to take Dad. Don’t make excuses.”

“If you don’t want to take him, fine, I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Mom apologized: “Sarah, don’t be upset, I didn’t know you were coming and only booked a table for two.”

They acted normal, not even stopping me from keeping Dad home.

The more normal they acted, the more confused I became.

After they left, I looked at Dad.

He was on the couch, giggling like a child.

Growing up, money was tight. Supporting two kids in school was tough.

Mom wanted to pull me out of school so my brother could go, saving the money for his future wife.

Dad insisted I stay in school, working three jobs so I could get my Master’s degree.

By the time I could repay him, he had Alzheimer’s, forgetting everything.

Remembering how he died, my eyes welled up.

Dad worked hard all his life, never enjoyed his old age, and was crushed to death.

I fought back tears.

“Dad, are your brother and mom treating you well?”

Dad looked at me blankly: “Who are you? Who are brother and mom? I want Sarah, little Sarah needs to eat.”

I explained patiently: “I’m Sarah. Those two who just left are your son and wife.”

Dad’s eyes lit up: “Sarah, you’ve grown up! You look beautiful! Brother and Mom are good to me, they give me lots of yummy food.”

Suddenly, he asked: “Why aren’t we going to the place with the people in white coats today?”

I followed up: “Are those people in white coats nice to you?”

Dad nodded vigorously.

I held Dad’s wrist, leaning on him like when I was a kid, and said sincerely: “Dad, I don’t want you to go.”

Last time, after I took Dad to the nursing home, he disappeared and died under the wheels of a car.

This time, I will protect him.

Dad was watching TV in the living room while I worked in the study.

The nursing home called: “Ms. Sarah Miller, why didn’t your father come in for his therapy session? Did something happen?”

The same question, the same tone, as in my past life.

My heart tightened. I walked to the living room as I spoke.

“Sorry, Nurse Emily, I had some urgent work and couldn’t call you. Dad…”

I stopped.

Dad was gone!

The TV blared.

Terror gripped me.

I hung up and frantically searched the house.

The locked door to my brother’s old room was open.

A suffocating dread came over me.

My heart pounded.

A bad feeling loomed.

I cautiously entered the room.

It was cozy, windows closed, nothing unusual.

But Dad wasn’t there.

Where did he go?

The painful memories resurfaced.

I trembled, struggling to breathe.

I called the police.

They found Dad’s body on the road near my brother’s house.

The same ending as before.

I froze, then rushed out.

Even at the morgue, I couldn’t believe it.

Dad, who’d just called my name with joy, lay in a pool of blood, limbs broken, intestines spilling out.

Tears streamed down my face.

I stumbled to his body, wiping his bloody face with my sleeve.

I held his hand, screaming “Dad!”

His large hand, the one that held mine on the way to school, was cold.

I didn’t understand. Why did Dad leave me again?

Why, after I tried so hard to keep him safe, did nothing change?

Why were my efforts futile? I still couldn’t save him.

Grief drained me.

Tears dried on my face.

Mom and my brother arrived.

Seeing Dad, Mom almost collapsed.

She pushed me to the ground, tears streaming down her face.

“I left him with you for just a little while, how could this happen!”

My brother sobbed: “Dad, don’t scare me! You just said yesterday you wanted to go on a road trip with us when you got better.”

He punched his head: “I’m unfilial, it’s my fault, I should have taken you myself. Dad, please wake up!”

Onlookers murmured: “Isn’t that Mr. Miller? He was such a nice man, always helping out. How could this happen?”

“His son is so filial too, taking such good care of him, spending all his savings on his treatment.”

“Mr. Miller was a good father too, especially to his daughter. He worked so hard, never had a good day in his old age…”

A police officer approached me, holding a tablet: “Ms. Miller, we have surveillance footage from the intersection. It shows you driving the car that hit the victim.”

Seeing my shock, the officer played the video, zooming in.

I was driving, eyes filled with rage, speeding towards Dad.

After he screamed, I reversed and ran over his head, stomach, and limbs, one by one. I got out to make sure he was dead, then drove away.

The officer sneered: “Don’t bother acting in front of us. Four cameras captured your crime. What do you have to say?”

Everyone stared at me with anger, disgust, and contempt.

They gritted their teeth, wanting to tear me apart.

It was all the same as before.

Despair washed over me.

Before I could speak, my brother lunged, punching me: “Sis! Do you have a conscience?”

“Dad loved you the most! He didn’t even eat meat so he could send you to school! How could you do this? Are you even human?”

My brother’s fist landed with full force.

My cheek swelled, my mouth filled with blood.

His eyes were bloodshot, wanting to tear me to pieces, just like last time.

My heart sank, filled with pain and helplessness.

Last time, he did the same, condemning me without a second thought, not even asking if I had an explanation.

Mom cried over Dad’s body, glaring at me.

“Sarah Miller, what did your father ever do to you! How could you kill him in such a cruel way!”

“I knew it! Daughters are never grateful! You’re worse than an animal!”

Mom gasped for air, sobbing on Dad’s body.

The crowd erupted: “Mr. Miller is so pitiful, raising such a monster! Killing her own father.”

“She’s such a good actress, crying so sadly! Turns out she’s the murderer!”

“Never raise a daughter, you might lose your life!”

Someone threw a water bottle, bruising my arm.

Others followed suit, throwing things at me.

I couldn’t dodge. My neck got cut, bleeding.

Someone started livestreaming.

The comments were filled with insults, cursing me to hell.

“Daughter kills father” was trending.

More netizens piled on, calling for my death.

The officer stepped forward: “This is a heinous crime, with clear evidence. Do you have anything else to say?”

Remembering my past life, I calmed down and looked at the officer: “I didn’t kill him. Officer, please investigate thoroughly. Don’t wrong an innocent person and let the real culprit go free.”

The officer frowned, skeptical: “We obtained this footage ourselves. It’s authentic, no chance of manipulation.”

“Officers have investigated the restaurant where your brother and mother were dining. They have a solid alibi. You were the only one with your father two hours before and after the incident.”

“Combined with the video, who else could be the killer?”

The officer’s words were logical and persuasive.

If I hadn’t experienced it myself, I would have doubted myself too.

Who killed my dad and framed me?

Questions swirled in my head.

What was the truth that I never uncovered in my past life?

Seeing my silence, the crowd assumed I was guilty and continued their insults: “She looks so innocent, but she’s so shameless! Still denying it with the evidence right there!”

“She deserves to be struck by lightning! How dare she kill her father, it’s disgusting!”

“Mr. Miller is so tragic, cherishing his daughter only to raise a monster!”

The livestream comments exploded, wishing me dead.

The officer signaled, and other officers handcuffed me, pushing me into a police car.

“We’ll take her back for questioning.”

In my past life, I succumbed to the public pressure, becoming depressed, unsure if I was the killer, and eventually jumped to my death.

My husband and child were also victims. Netizens doxxed them, throwing sewage at our door.

My five-year-old daughter was kidnapped on her way to school, found dismembered, her body beyond repair.

My husband, consumed by grief and fear, arranged our daughter’s funeral, only to be locked in a dark room at the funeral home and starved to death.

His body wasn’t discovered until the stench filled the building.

Was I doomed to repeat this tragedy?

Would Dad’s death remain a mystery?

My mind raced, replaying every detail.

What went wrong?

Why did everyone deny seeing me at the nursing home last time, even though I handed Dad over to the nurse myself?

Why did Dad disappear from our home this time and end up dead on the same road?

Why did the surveillance show me hitting Dad when I never left the house?