Chapter 1

The smell of burning plastic hit me first, a sharp, acrid scent that pulled me from a deep, dark place.

I sat up with a jolt, my heart pounding against my ribs. I wasn't in a prison cell. I wasn't bleeding out on a cold, wet street after being pushed in front of a truck.

I was in my own bed, in the condo I bought with my own money before I married Matthew Clark.

A loud shriek came from the kitchen. "Jen! Jennifer, get out here right now! Look what you've done!"

It was Carol, my mother-in-law. Her voice, thick with manufactured panic, was a sound I thought I' d never hear again.

I swung my legs out of bed, my feet hitting the cool hardwood floor. My body felt light, young, and whole. The years of prison food, the chronic back pain, the scars-they were all gone.

I walked into the kitchen. Carol stood there, a spatula in one hand and her phone in the other, still recording a TikTok dance. On the stove, the electric kettle had melted into a grotesque, black lump, smoke curling towards the ceiling.

"This cheap kettle you bought is a fire hazard!" she yelled, finally putting her phone down. "It could have burned the whole building down! It's all your fault, Jennifer."

I just stared at her. In my first life, this was the start of it all. The small things. The burnt toast was my fault because I bought the wrong bread. The overflowing sink was my fault because I must have clogged it. It was never her fault, never her responsibility. She was a master at shifting blame, and my husband, Matthew, was her loyal soldier, always ready to make me the scapegoat.

"You're right, Carol," I said, my voice eerily calm. "It's my fault."

She looked surprised by my quick surrender. "Well, at least you admit it."

I knew what came next. Today was the day she stole the diabetic medication from our neighbor, Mrs. Gable. Today was the day my first life started its rapid descent into hell.

But this wasn't my first life anymore.

I watched Carol tidy up, still muttering about my poor shopping choices. Then, she glanced at the clock. "I'm just stepping out for some air," she announced, grabbing her purse.

"Okay," I said, pulling out my phone. "Be careful."

The moment the front door clicked shut, I followed her. I stayed far enough behind that she wouldn't notice me, my phone already recording. I saw her pause at Mrs. Gable's door, look both ways, and then snatch the small, insulated package from the welcome mat.

I zoomed in, capturing the moment perfectly. I even caught her muttering under her breath, "Serves her right, spending so much on medicine when some people have nothing."

She tucked the package into her large purse and walked back towards our unit, a smug look on her face.

I didn't follow her back. Instead, I walked to the communal lounge, used the public Wi-Fi, and created a new, anonymous Facebook account. I uploaded the video to the condo community's private group with a simple caption: "Package thief caught on camera at Unit 3B."

Then I went back to my condo and waited.