Chapter 3

Brittany didn' t approach me directly about the gala incident. Instead, she went to my parents.

I came home for the weekend, and my mother, Susan, looked troubled.

"Jess, honey, Brittany called earlier," she said, as we sat in the sunroom. "She was very upset."

"Oh?" I kept my voice light.

"She said there was a terrible misunderstanding with her credit card at that charity event. Something about her guardians putting a temporary hold... she felt so humiliated. She was worried you might think badly of her."

My mother, bless her philanthropic heart, was inclined to believe the best in people. Especially someone her foundation sponsored.

"She even implied," my father, David, added, walking in with two glasses of iced tea, "that perhaps you were a little... abrupt, stepping in like that. Though she said she was grateful, of course."

Brittany was good. Very good. Playing the victim, subtly painting me as unkind.

"Mom, Dad," I said, choosing my words carefully. "Brittany' s card was declined for five hundred dollars. She made a very public offer she couldn' t fulfill. I just helped out so the charity wouldn' t be short."

"She said her guardians are very wealthy but incredibly strict," Mom mused. "And that you two were becoming such good friends."

"Friends?" I let a small, thoughtful frown crease my brow. "We' re classmates, Mom. She' s always very... intense. Wants to be involved in everything."

Brittany' s performance for my parents was flawless. She sobbed, according to Mom, about how she just wanted to fit in, how the pressure of her "guardians'" expectations was immense, and how she feared disappointing the Millers, her benefactors.

"She feels you' re pulling away, Jess," Dad said, his brow furrowed with concern. "She sounded genuinely distressed."

"I' ve just been busy with classes," I said, avoiding a direct confrontation about Brittany' s character yet. "And honestly, that whole credit card thing was embarrassing for her. Maybe she' s just feeling awkward."

I saw the doubt in their eyes. They loved me, trusted me, but Brittany' s act was potent.

"Perhaps you could invite her over sometime soon?" Mom suggested. "Clear the air. She seems to admire you so much."

I managed a noncommittal smile. "Maybe. University is just so hectic right now."

I subtly changed the subject, talking about my classes, asking about their week. But I knew Brittany was already working to secure her position, to isolate me if necessary.

Later that evening, when I was alone in my old room, I thought about the depth of her manipulation. She wasn't just after money. She wanted our lives, our status, everything. And she was willing to destroy anyone who stood in her way.

The preliminary report from Mr. Davies, the PI, arrived via encrypted email.

It was brief. Brittany Anne Evans. Born in a rundown trailer park south of Gary, Indiana. Mother deceased, drug overdose. Father unknown. A string of foster homes. And then, the chilling part: sealed juvenile records. Multiple arrests. Assault.

The PI noted it was highly unusual for juvenile records to be so tightly sealed unless the offenses were severe or influential parties intervened.

There was no mention of Spike Rourke yet. But the "assault" charge sent a shiver down my spine.

I had to tell my parents more. Not the rebirth, not the murders. They' d never believe that. But enough to make them see the real Brittany.

The next morning, I approached them.

"Mom, Dad, I need to talk to you about Brittany. Seriously."

I told them about the credit card again, but this time I framed it differently.

"It wasn' t just that it was declined," I said. "It was the way she tried to cover it up. The elaborate lies about her 'guardians' and 'international accounts.' It felt... practiced."

I hesitated, then continued, "I was worried, so I asked a friend whose father does... security consulting... to discreetly look into her background. Just to make sure she was, you know, okay, given the scholarship." It was a partial truth.

"And?" Dad asked, his expression serious.

"Her story about her wealthy guardians isn't true. She comes from a very difficult, impoverished background. There are sealed juvenile records."

My mother gasped. "Oh, Jess. Are you sure? That poor girl."

"I am sure, Mom," I said gently. "And I' m not saying this to be cruel. I' m saying it because her lying so extensively about something so fundamental is... concerning. Why hide it so completely from you, who are helping her?"

Seeds of doubt. They were planted.

My father looked thoughtful. "Sealed juvenile records are serious. What did she do?"

"My source couldn't access the details, but the fact they're sealed so tightly is a red flag."

"This is... a lot to take in," Mom said, looking pale. "We wanted to help her."

"And you are helping her," I said. "But we also need to be careful. She' s not who she presents herself to be."

My parents exchanged a look. The image of the grateful, hardworking scholarship student was cracking.