Page 21 of Dead Set on You
No.No.
He can’t be right. He almost never is.
My chest tightens, like it’s trying to reject the very thought.
This is impossible.
I can’t be here and there.Can I?
Nope.
Rafael was messing with me. It’s his thing.
But—
The body in the bed looks so much like me.
Propelled by inexplicable curiosity, I inch closer to the bed. My breaths hitch with each step until I don’t breathe at all. Because now, up close, I can’t deny it. The same pert nose and full lips, the beauty mark beneath the right eye, the faint scar above my wrist from a stupid dare that had me attempting to climb a fence into a cemetery at midnight and cutting myself open. I fainted right after and almost bled out.
Even if I dismiss the face, the scar, and all the physical signs it’s me on the bed, it’s hard to ignore the wristband—the plastic bracelet, snug around my wrist:
EVIE POPE. DOB:11/02/96
Final, irrefutable proof.
I suck in another breath, willing my lungs to expand.
It’s wildly,wildlyimpossible, but the evidence is becoming undeniable. And if that’s me lying on the bed, then who isthisversion of me? The one who woke up in Rafael’s apartment? The one who spiraled into a panic attack and somehow ended up here?
Lifting my hands to eye level, I recognize my fingers as my own. The scar is visible against my wrist. The nails are manicured and polished blush pink. My legs are mine, too, toned from hours of running and riding my Peloton. A smattering of beauty marks dots the pale skin.
I check the door before I quickly cup my breasts. They’re definitely mine. Small, but not too tiny. Round and pushed up by a bra.
I glance around the room for a reflective surface. Nothing glimmers back, so I sneak into the gray-beige bathroom to the side of the room. Holding my breath, I face the square mirror above the sink. Only no one looks back.
I squeak in shock, blinking several times.It’s not possible.
I wave at the mirror. Nothing stirs.
I inch up to it, almost pressing my nose against it. The room behind me is the only thing in the reflection.
Somehow, I’m here, but I’mnot.
I spin toward the bed and the body hooked up to machines and tubes. I look at her, and she blurs. Morphs into my sister Annie. Like the last—and final—time I saw her. Pale and small and … lifeless.
Throat burning, I blink the image away. Annie’s been gone so long now.
And that’s me.Me.
Panic lands a roundhouse kick to my gut, and I stumble.
Oh God.
Rafael may have been right.
I’m in a coma.
Unmoving.
