Chapter 3

Savannah forced a tight smile. "You're right. I'm sorry. I was just trying to be nice."

She tried to take the bottle back, but I reached out and took it from her.

"No, I'll keep it," I said, feigning forgiveness. "It was a sweet thought."

I held the bottle, the source of my past death, feeling its cold glass against my palm. I gave her a weak smile and sat back down at my desk.

She retreated, defeated and humiliated.

The moment she was out of sight, I turned to my computer.

I typed "antique apothecary bottle" into the search bar.

Dozens of images appeared. I found an identical one on Etsy. Vintage. From the 1920s.

I paid for next-day delivery.

The next morning, the package arrived at my apartment. It was a perfect match.

I took the real cursed bottle into my bathroom and locked the door. My hands shook as I uncapped it. A faint, unpleasant, earthy smell hit me. The smell of my future grave.

I poured the thick, dark oil down the drain, rinsing it thoroughly with hot water and bleach until I was sure every last drop was gone.

Then, I opened my kitchen cabinet. I took out the fish oil capsules I was supposed to be taking for my health. I pricked ten of them with a pin and squeezed the foul-smelling liquid into the replica bottle.

For good measure, I added a few drops of patchouli oil. The combination was pungent, weird, and deeply unpleasant. It was perfect.

I screwed the cap on the replica and put it on my nightstand.

Later that day at the office, Savannah walked by my desk. She glanced at the bottle, which I had yet to bring in.

I caught her eye and, with a small, secret smile, I pretended to dab a bit of my normal lotion on my wrist, as if I were using her "gift" at home.

She saw the gesture and a flicker of smug satisfaction crossed her face.

She thought her plan was working. She had no idea.