Chapter 4

"We should probably distance ourselves a little," Mom said a few days later, her voice heavy with disappointment. "At least until we understand more. It' s one thing to have a hard past, it' s another to construct an entirely false identity for us."

Dad nodded. "I agree. We' ll continue the scholarship, of course. We made a commitment. But perhaps no more... personal involvement for now."

I felt a wave of relief. They were listening. But I knew Brittany. This wouldn't be enough. A simple severing of close ties would only make her more desperate, more dangerous.

"I don't think it will be that easy," I told them. "She' s not going to just accept being kept at arm's length. She' s invested a lot in this image, in getting close to our family."

"What do you mean, honey?" Mom asked, a new anxiety in her eyes.

"People who are this deceptive, this manipulative... they don' t just give up," I explained, trying to convey the danger without revealing the full, terrifying truth of my past life. "If she feels like she's losing her grip, she might do something drastic to regain control or to punish us for pulling away."

My father frowned. "Punish us? Jess, that sounds a bit extreme. She's a young woman, a student."

"A young woman with sealed juvenile records for assault," I reminded him gently. "We don't know what she's capable of when cornered."

My words hung in the air. They were starting to see that Brittany wasn't just a misguided girl, but potentially a threat.

The following weekend, my parents were scheduled to attend a charity conference in New York. They' d be gone from Friday to Sunday night.

In my first life, this was when Brittany made a bold move.

I had a sinking feeling she' d try it again.

On Friday afternoon, after my parents had left for the airport, I got a text from a classmate, Sarah.

"Hey Jess! You coming to Britt's party tonight? She said it's at her family's place in Winnetka. Insane house!"

Winnetka. Our suburban Chicago home.

My blood ran cold. She was doing it.

"Her family's place?" I texted back, playing dumb.

"Yeah! She said her parents are out of town. It' s gonna be epic."

Brittany, bold as brass, was throwing a lavish party at my house, telling everyone it was hers.

I remembered the scene from my first life: the crowded rooms, the blaring music, Brittany acting the gracious hostess, telling people I was just a "friend from a less fortunate background" whom she was kindly "letting stay over." The humiliation had been acute.

This time, the script would be different.

I drove out to Winnetka that evening. The street was already lined with cars. Music pulsed from our house, lights blazing.

I parked down the block and walked up the driveway, my heart a tight knot of anger and resolve.

The front door was open. I could see throngs of students, drinks in hand, laughing and dancing.

Brittany was near the entrance, holding a champagne flute, basking in the attention. She was wearing one of my mother' s silk scarves, as if it were her own.

Someone I vaguely recognized from a shared economics class, a guy named Kevin, saw me.

"Oh, hey Jess!" he said, a little surprised. "Didn't know you knew Brittany's family."

"Brittany who?" I asked, my voice even.

He looked confused. "Brittany Evans. It's her house. She's letting a few of us crash."

Brittany turned then, her eyes widening in shock when she saw me. The smile on her face vanished.

"Jess!" she exclaimed, her voice a little too high. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here, Brittany," I said, loud enough for those nearby to hear. "This is my parents' house."