Chapter 4

On the surveillance feed, Bree slipped out of her room in a paper-thin white silk nightgown that was practically see-through. She was barefoot and carrying an empty glass. She drifted toward the kitchen like a ghost.

There was no way a scholarship student on a stipend could afford that nightgown. She'd come prepared, and it was obviously a costume.

She stopped in the kitchen doorway and spotted Eric standing with his back to her, drinking water. She tugged her neckline down a little and then called out in her sweetest voice, "Eric, you're still up too."

Then, she pretended to twist her ankle, let out a little yelp, and threw herself toward his back, glass and all.

In my last life, this was the exact moment Eric instinctively turned around and caught her. She splashed water all over him, their bodies pressed together, and she burst into tears on cue. That was how the whole nightmare started.

But this time around, the second Eric heard that sugary voice, every hair on his body stood up. The alarm bells in his head went off, and my "bioweapon" warning flashed through his mind.

He dodged sideways with a speed that defied basic anatomy.

Bree grabbed at nothing and crashed straight onto the marble floor. The glass shattered everywhere and the cold water soaked through her precious silk nightgown, leaving nothing to the imagination.

"Ow…"

She was seeing stars, tears streaming from the pain. She looked up at Eric with those pitiful eyes and stretched out her hand. "Eric, I twisted my ankle. It really hurts. Can you just help me up?"

Eric didn't help her up. He stumbled backward three full steps like he'd seen a ghost, cleared the kitchen entirely, pulled out his phone, and dialed 911 at lightning speed.

"Hello? 911? Yes, right, this is 8 Lakeside Estates, Building A. There's a woman here who just collapsed on the floor. She's convulsing and foaming at the mouth. It could be a seizure.

"Please hurry, and bring a stretcher!"

Bree lay on the floor, stunned into silence. She forgot to even keep crying. "I'm… I'm not having a seizure, I just—"

"Don't talk! You could bite your tongue off during a seizure!" Eric shouted, grabbed a dishrag off the counter, and tried to toss it toward her mouth from a safe distance.

I nearly burst out laughing in front of the monitors. When Eric committed to playing dumb, he could flip the whole game on its head.

I slid on my slippers and headed downstairs, pretending I'd just been woken up. "What's going on?"

"She had a seizure! She came running out in the middle of the night wearing practically nothing and just dropped! I already called 911!"

Eric ducked behind me.

Bree was burning with humiliation, struggling to get up off the floor.

"Leah, I didn't… I just wanted a glass of water, and I tripped."

"If you tripped, then stay down. What if you hurt your spine?" I cut her off, my voice flat, and turned to our housekeeper, Jane Porter, who'd come out from the noise.

"Jane, grab a blanket and cover her up before she catches a cold. We signed that liability waiver for a reason. If something happens to her, I don't want it coming back on us."

Ten minutes later, an ambulance came screaming down the street. The sirens were loud enough to wake up half the neighbors in the surrounding houses.

A team of paramedics rushed in with a stretcher and strapped Bree down, blanket and all, while she thrashed and tried to explain that nothing was wrong with her.

"I'm fine! There's nothing wrong with me! Let go of me!"

She was still screaming as they wheeled her out past a growing crowd of neighbors, all whispering and staring. They hauled her off to the ER for a full neurological checkup.

That night didn't just humiliate Bree. She also got stuck with over a thousand dollars in medical bills. But the thing about someone like Bree was that she bounced back fast.

A few days later, Eric was driving me somewhere, and Bree latched on, insisting she needed a ride to campus since it was "on the way". She planted herself in the back seat.

When she got out, she made a show of casually dropping a hair tie reeking of perfume and an uncapped lipstick into the crevice of the leather seats.

In my last life, that lipstick triggered a massive blowup between Eric and his girlfriend at the time. They broke up over it, and Bree swooped right in to play the shoulder to cry on.

This time, the second the car stopped and Bree stepped out, I pulled on a pair of white gloves. I had Eric drive back to the garage and called Jane over.

With Bree still within earshot, I pointed at the back seat. "Jane, use those long-handled trash tongs and get those things out of there."

Jane fished out the hair tie and the lipstick without missing a beat.

"Leah, those are mine, I just accidentally…" Bree heard the commotion and turned around, her expression shifting.

"Throw them in the hazardous waste bin outside."

I didn't even glance at her. I gave the order to Jane and moved on.

Then, I grabbed a bottle of high-concentration rubbing alcohol spray and doused the back seat for a solid 30 seconds.

"You never know what kind of germs are floating around out there these days. Who knows what was on those things? Eric, get someone to do a full sanitization of this car tomorrow."

I said it just loud enough for Bree to hear every word. She stood frozen in place, the color draining from her face. She looked like she was about to snap.

Finally, on a night when Eric was away on a business trip, she couldn't hold back any longer.

At 2:00 am, Eric forwarded me a screenshot.

Bree had texted him. "Eric, it's thundering outside, and I'm really scared. I can't sleep. Are you home? Can you talk to me for a bit?"

Eric's message to me read, "The bioweapon's leaking again. What do I do?"

I smiled, saved the screenshot, and forwarded it straight to Bree's college counselor.

"Ms. Channing, sorry to bother you so late. Bree Webb, the student our family sponsors, just sent my brother this kind of message in the middle of the night. It reads as a clear cry for help from someone in an extremely fragile mental state.

"Given what she told us about her severe depression, I'm very worried she might try to hurt herself tonight. For her safety, I'd ask that the school send a residence advisor and a counselor to our home immediately.

"If necessary, please contact the authorities for a psychiatric evaluation. Our family can't afford to bear that kind of responsibility."

Within half an hour, the counselor showed up at our front door with two campus security guards and a residence advisor in tow.

When Bree was dragged out of bed to face the counselor's dead-serious "crisis intervention" questioning, she looked like she was about to lose her mind.

After the school staff confirmed she wasn't a danger to herself and gave her a stern lecture, they finally left. That left just the two of us in the living room.

Bree finally dropped the act. Her eyes were red, and she stared me down, jaw clenched. Her voice was dripping with venom as she asked, "Leah, what is your problem? You're treating me like I'm some kind of criminal. What did I ever do to you?"