The Price of a Perfect Angel

The cold steel of a knife slid between my ribs, and the last thing I remember was the shock on my best friend Wendy' s face – not that I was dying, but that she needed the perfect angle for her livestream.

She narrated my demise, blaming me for trying to sleep with a trucker, her voice sickly excited as notifications pinged with hateful comments like "Serves her right" and "Stupid slut."

I died on the dirty floor of a truck cabin, my blood pooling around me, smeared as a whore, utterly betrayed by the person I trusted most.

My last breath was a gasp of disbelief, wondering how I could have been so blind to her jealousy and malice.

Then, I gasped again, only this time the air was clean, not thick with diesel and blood, and I was back in my law firm's breakroom, staring at a saccharine-smiling Wendy, who was about to propose the very trip that led to my murder.

The last thing I remember is the cold steel of a knife sliding between my ribs.

Then, the shock on my best friend Wendy' s face.

Not shock that I was dying, but shock that she had to find the perfect angle for her livestream.

"Oh my god, you guys! My friend just got stabbed! She was trying to sleep with this trucker for a free ride, and it went wrong! So tragic!"

Her voice, usually dripping with fake sweetness, was now filled with a sick excitement.

I lay on the dirty floor of the truck cabin, my blood pooling around me. I could hear the notifications pinging on her phone, a chorus of hate and judgment from strangers who believed her lies.

"Serves her right."

"Stupid slut."

"Train hopper got what was coming."

Wendy had set me up. She told the trucker, Barney, that I was easy. She pushed me into his cabin because she wanted my comfortable Amtrak sleeper bed for herself. All because she was jealous of my job, my salary, my life.

I died alone, smeared as a whore, betrayed by the one person I trusted most in the world. My last breath was a gasp of disbelief.

Then, I gasped again.

The air was clean, not thick with the smell of diesel and blood. I wasn't on a cold cabin floor. I was in the breakroom at my law firm in Chicago, the familiar scent of stale coffee and microwave popcorn in the air.

And standing in front of me, smiling her saccharine smile, was Wendy Chadwick.

"Gabby, you' re a lifesaver!" she chirped, holding her phone up to show me the Amtrak website. "A private sleeper cabin is $600! That' s insane. Let' s get one cabin and one coach seat and just take turns. It' ll save us so much money for our Thanksgiving trip home!"

The exact words. The exact moment.

It was real. I was back.

The memory of the knife, the searing pain, the online hatred, it all flooded me. It wasn't a dream. It was a warning. A second chance.

My hands started to shake, but I clenched them into fists under the table. The old me, the kind and trusting Gabrielle, would have agreed instantly. She would have paid for the whole cabin, just to help her "struggling" friend.

That Gabrielle was dead.

I looked Wendy straight in the eye, my voice cold and steady.

"No."

Wendy' s smile faltered. She blinked, confused. "What do you mean, no?"

"I mean no, Wendy. I' m not splitting a cabin with you. I' ll buy my own ticket."

Her confusion quickly curdled into annoyance. This wasn't part of her plan. I was supposed to be her generous, gullible doormat.

She glanced around the breakroom, saw our colleagues, Sarah and Mike, listening in. Her expression shifted instantly to one of a wounded victim.

"Oh," she said, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "I guess I just forgot. You make, what, a hundred thousand a year as a paralegal here? Of course, you wouldn' t need to save a few hundred dollars."

She sighed dramatically. "I' m sorry. I shouldn' t have even asked. It' s just, on my receptionist salary, things are so tight. I was just trying to find a way to see my family for the holiday."

Sarah and Mike shot me disapproving looks. I could see the judgment in their eyes: Gabrielle, the rich, selfish bitch.

Wendy was good. She was a master manipulator, playing the poverty card she always kept up her sleeve.

But I knew her game now. I saw every move before she made it.

I gave a small, tight smile. "You' re absolutely right, Wendy. Saving money is smart."

Hope flickered in her eyes.

"That' s why I' ll just get a coach seat too," I continued, my voice bright and cheerful. "It' s only, what, eighty bucks? We can sit together the whole way. It' ll be just like old times, keeping each other company!"

The look on Wendy' s face was priceless. Pure, unadulterated rage, quickly masked by a forced smile. She was trapped. She couldn' t argue against saving money when that was her whole public platform.

"Oh. Great," she sputtered, her teeth clenched. "That sounds... fun."

I watched her walk away, fuming. I knew what she was thinking. Her plan to get a free, private bed for the entire trip, leaving me to stand in the aisle, was ruined.

I took a deep, steadying breath. This time, the trip home for Thanksgiving would be different. This time, I was the one setting the trap.

I let Wendy stew in her frustration for a few days. I knew her well. The resentment would be building, the jealousy festering. She hated that I had outsmarted her so easily.

In my first life, I' d spent years listening to her sob stories. "Oh, Gabby, my rent is late again." "Can you cover dinner? I' m so broke until payday." "Your clothes are so nice, I wish I could afford things like that."

I always fell for it. I' d lend her money I never saw again, buy her things she "needed," and even got her the receptionist job at my firm, hoping it would help her get on her feet. I saw her as my childhood friend from our small town, someone I needed to protect in the big city.

I never saw the envy behind her sad eyes. I never understood that my success was a constant, bitter reminder of her own perceived failures.

I remembered one trip, years ago. We' d shared a hotel room for a weekend getaway. I paid for it, of course. She claimed she had a "dust allergy" and needed the bed by the window, the one with the better view. She then "accidentally" spilled a bottle of red wine on the other bed, leaving me to sleep on the lumpy, pull-out sofa.

"I' m so clumsy!" she had cried, tears welling up. "I' ll pay for the cleaning fee, I promise!"

She never did. I paid for it. And I comforted her.

The memory made my stomach turn. How had I been so blind?

The day before our trip, Wendy cornered me by the coffee machine, her eyes red-rimmed. She had clearly been practicing her crying.

"Gabby, I can' t do it," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I can' t sit in a coach seat for twelve hours. My motion sickness is just too bad. I' ll be throwing up the whole time."

Here it comes, I thought.

"I know you think I' m just being cheap," she continued, dabbing at her dry eyes with a tissue. "But it' s not that. I' m just... poor, Gabby. I really am. I only have like, fifty dollars to my name until next week."

She looked up at me, her expression a perfect blend of desperation and shame. It was a masterful performance.

In my first life, this is where I broke. I caved, bought the sleeper cabin, and set my own murder in motion.

This time, I just watched her. I let the silence hang in the air, enjoying the flicker of panic in her eyes as I failed to give her the expected response.

"I' m sorry to hear that, Wendy," I said finally, my tone neutral.

I didn' t offer money. I didn' t offer a solution. I just stood there, my face a mask of mild concern.

She was forced to continue. "So, I was thinking... maybe you could just... lend me the money for half the sleeper? I' ll pay you back, I swear! The first of the month!"

I just kept looking at her.

"Please, Gabby? I' ll do anything."

The desperation was real now. Her plan was falling apart.

I sighed, pretending to be deep in thought. "Well, I already bought my coach ticket. They' re non-refundable."

"You can upgrade!" she said, a little too quickly. "It' s easy!"

I shook my head slowly. "I don' t know, Wendy..."

I let her plead for another minute, watching her squirm. It was a small, bitter taste of revenge, but it was satisfying.

Finally, on the morning of our trip, I sent her a text.

"Good news! My parents were worried about me traveling in coach alone, so they surprised me and upgraded my ticket to a private sleeper! So I guess you can have your quiet ride after all. See you at the station!"

I imagined her reading it. The flash of triumph, thinking she had won. Thinking my soft-hearted parents had done her dirty work for her.

She wouldn' t even question it. She was too self-absorbed to consider any other possibility.

At my desk, I carefully brewed a cup of expensive, artisanal coffee. I took one sip, then placed it on the corner of my desk, right where I knew Wendy would pass on her way out. She was a notorious scavenger, always helping herself to any food or drink left unattended. She called it "being frugal." I called it being a mooch.

Into the coffee, I had stirred a small, white, tasteless powder. A powerful, delayed-action laxative. The box promised results in two to three hours.

Perfect timing.

I packed my bag, a cold, calm feeling settling over me. The game was about to begin.