My eyes snapped open.
The dorm room ceiling, with its familiar water stain shaped like a crooked smile, loomed above.
Across the room, Brianna Jones hummed softly, applying makeup.
She wore a cheap copy of my cashmere sweater.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
This wasn' t right.
This was weeks ago.
The memories crashed down: the Paris program acceptance, the "going away" party, the sickening taste, then absolute darkness.
Brianna had poisoned me.
I saw her smirk, remembered collapsing.
Yet here she was, her reflection smiling sweetly in her compact mirror, her voice falsely cheerful.
"Morning, sleepyhead," she chirped.
This was the ambitious girl from a small town.
My roommate.
The one who wanted my life.
I stared at her, the image of her malicious triumph at my party seared into my brain.