Chapter 1

Bridget's chest convulsed.

She sucked in a harsh, desperate breath, and her lungs immediately rejected it. Murky, foul-tasting water erupted from her mouth. She coughed violently, her throat burning as if someone had dragged sandpaper down her windpipe. The violent hacking shattered the tense, hushed silence of the small room. A woman sat slumped in a chair by the bed, her silent grief making the room feel airless.

Her eyes watered. Her vision blurred with physiological tears. She tried to lift her right hand to wipe her eyes, but her arm felt like it was made of wet cement. The muscles simply refused to fire.

The rough sound of cheap fabric rubbing against wood reached her ears. A middle-aged woman wearing a faded floral dress from the seventies threw herself at the edge of the narrow bed.

The woman grabbed Bridget's hand. Her grip was bruising. Hot tears fell onto Bridget's cold skin, the temperature of the drops shockingly warm against her freezing knuckles.

Bridget's brain-the brain of a twenty-first-century Wall Street financial analyst-booted up instantly. Her first instinct was to pull her hand back from the stranger. She tugged, but her weakened body couldn't break the woman's desperate hold.

Then, the memories hit her.

They didn't fade in. They slammed into her skull like broken glass. A massive migraine spiked behind her eyes. She saw a lake, a boy with a cruel laugh, a pink envelope, and the suffocating feeling of water filling her lungs.

Bridget squeezed her eyes shut. She fought the intense wave of nausea and dizziness. She categorized the data flooding her mind: The year was 1978. She was in a poor, marginalized town in Pennsylvania. The original owner of this body had thrown herself into a lake over a boy.

When Bridget opened her eyes again, the confusion was entirely gone. The panic of the drowning girl was erased. In its place was the absolute, freezing calculation she used when staring at a crashing stock market ticker.

She turned her head. She took in the peeling yellow paint on the walls and the rusted metal IV pole next to the bed. She was no longer in her Manhattan penthouse. That life was over.

Corda, her mother in this new reality, lifted her head. Her eyes were swollen and red. Fear and anger warred on her face. Corda opened her mouth and started yelling, her voice cracking as she scolded Bridget for trying to kill herself over some out-of-town boy.

A sudden, sharp ache hit the back of Bridget's throat. It was a residual emotion from the original Bridget-a deep, agonizing guilt toward her mother.

Bridget took a slow, shallow breath. She forced that weak, useless emotion down into a dark box and locked it.

She turned her hand over and gripped Corda's rough fingers. The thick calluses on the older woman's skin communicated the brutal financial reality of this family better than any bank statement. Her analytical mind instantly crunched the variables: cash flow was effectively zero, there were clearly no fixed assets to leverage, and the debt-to-income ratio was likely catastrophic. Tier-one poverty.

Bridget looked directly into Corda's panicked eyes. Her voice was incredibly raspy, but the tone was steady. "I'm sorry."

The absolute calm in her voice made Corda freeze. The rest of her scolding died in her throat. This wasn't the hysterical, timid daughter she knew.

Bridget didn't break eye contact. She spoke clearly, pacing her words so her weak lungs could keep up. "I already died in that lake. That stupid girl is never coming back."

Corda stared at her in shock. She searched Bridget's face for the usual dramatic tears, the pathetic begging. She found nothing but rock-solid composure.

Miraculously, that cold composure anchored Corda's panic. Corda slapped a hand over her mouth, suppressing a loud, ugly sob of pure relief.

Bridget shifted her heavy body. She managed to free her left arm. Her movements were stiff, but she reached out and firmly patted her mother's shaking back.

The door hinges let out a loud screech. An older doctor wearing a white coat and thick black-rimmed glasses pushed into the room.

He held a metal clipboard. He glanced at Bridget, expecting tears or sedation. A flicker of surprise crossed his face when he saw her sitting there, perfectly calm.

The doctor walked to the foot of the bed. He pulled the stethoscope from his neck and told Bridget to sit forward so he could listen to her lungs.

Bridget complied immediately. She pushed herself up, her movements efficient. There was no sluggishness of a depressed, suicidal teenager.

The freezing metal of the stethoscope pressed against her bare back. Bridget frowned slightly, internally assessing just how much muscle mass and stamina this body lacked.

The doctor pulled the earpieces out. He scribbled something on the chart and announced that she was physically out of the woods. No permanent organ damage.

Hearing the final verdict, Corda's knees buckled. She swayed toward the floor. Bridget's hand shot out, her fingers digging into Corda's forearm to keep the woman upright.

Bridget looked at the doctor. She asked about the discharge fees and the specific at-home care requirements. Her vocabulary was precise. She used no filler words.

The doctor blinked, caught off guard by her clinical, adult tone. He cleared his throat and gave her the cheapest home-care advice, assuming they had no insurance.

Bridget ran the numbers in her head. She accessed the memories of the cash hidden in the coffee can at home. It was enough. She made the decision immediately. They were leaving today.

Corda looked worried, but when she met Bridget's uncompromising stare, she swallowed her protests. Corda turned and hurried out the door to the front desk to handle the paperwork.

Bridget sat alone on the narrow bed. She rubbed her thumb against her index finger, already planning her next move.