Chapter 1

The scratchy lace of the pillowcase was the first thing I felt.

Then, the too-bright Texas sun through a thin curtain.

I sat up fast. My heart hammered.

This room. I knew this room.

This was the historic Texas ranch B&B, the place where everything went wrong the first time.

My hands flew to my neck, then my chest. I was breathing. Alive.

But I remembered dying. Clearly. At that awful "wellness retreat."

A jolt went through me. The date on my phone confirmed it. I was back. Back at the start of the family reunion, the day of the stolen locket.

My mother, Brenda. Her face swam into my mind.

"I was only trying to help!" Her constant excuse.

Help?

She "helped" me lose a major promotion. During this very reunion, she' d "borrowed" an antique silver locket from a display case, a small, pretty thing. She slipped it into my purse.

When it was found, I was the thief. A local blogger was there, and the story blew up. My company was furious.

Brenda' s defense? "I just thought it was a pretty trinket, and you deserved something nice! How was I to know it was valuable?"

Her "help" didn't stop there.

I was up for an executive role, international travel, the works. It needed a full health screening.

Brenda, "helping" me get ready, "accidentally" spilled coffee all over my lab forms and my blood samples.

Then, she secretly replaced my sample with an old one of hers. "Blood is blood," she' d probably thought.

I was diagnosed with a chronic liver condition. I lost the executive position.

When the truth about the sample came out, much later, Brenda wailed, "I was just trying to fix my mistake! You' re so ungrateful, I get sick and you don' t even care!"

It was her blood, her illness.

The depression after that was crushing. I couldn't work. I could barely function.

Brenda pushed me into a "wellness retreat." Some guru she saw on daytime TV. "It'll cure you," she insisted.

At the retreat, vulnerable and broke, I was exploited. Then, another unstable attendee, in a moment of chaos, harmed me. Fatally.

I remembered the shock, the pain, then nothing.

Until now. Waking up in this frilly bed, the day it all started to unravel.

My mother's "good intentions" had paved my road to hell.

This time, things would be different.

I looked at my identical designer tote bag on the chair. Then, I remembered my father, Robert, always carried a similar-looking briefcase.

An idea sparked. Cold and clear.