Chapter 1

"That Juliet girl is way too naive. She handed over all her money when her husband's mother offered to manage it for her. She didn't even realize her best friend had stolen her recipes," someone said.

"Have you heard? Juliet's husband got together with her best friend. Juliet was sent to a psychiatric hospital and died there," another person said.

In my previous life, I handed over my house, my shop, and all my savings. In return, I got two years of needles in a psychiatric ward and a body no one came to claim.

Barry Currie, Mabel Currie, and Delilah Overton.

You three owed me, and this time, I was going to settle it with you one by one.

Before Mabel's luggage could even cross the threshold, I had called a locksmith.

I said, "This house was bought outright with my own money. If you want to live here, the rent is three thousand dollars a month, payable six months in advance."

*****

I had died once.

I counted 123 tiles on the ceiling of the psychiatric ward for two whole years.

When the nurse stuck the needle in my arm, she said they had upped my meds that day. I wanted to struggle, but my arms and legs were tied down to the bed. I couldn't move.

There were voices at the end of the hallway.

It was Barry's voice.

It was Delilah's laughter.

The two voices tangled together, just like every night in my previous life when I worked overtime until midnight, while they sat in my living room drinking wine.

In my final seconds of consciousness, I heard the nurse say to the intern.

"This patient has no visitors. Her husband's mother pays the fees, using her own savings," she said.

Then I died.

When I opened my eyes again, I was standing in my living room.

Sunlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, stinging my eyes. My phone was sitting on the coffee table, the screen lit up.

It was March 15, 2024.

My hands were shaking. It wasn't because I was cold.

The doorbell rang.

I looked down at my wrists. They were flawless and smooth, with no needle marks.

The doorbell rang again, three times in a row. Then I heard a voice from outside.

It was Mabel, my mother-in-law.

She shouted, "Juliet. Open the door. Where's Barry? I've got way too much luggage. Come down and help me carry it."

On this day in my previous life, she dragged four large suitcases and moved in.

That first month, she claimed she'd help me manage the household.

By the third month, she had gotten hold of all my bank card passwords.

By the sixth month, she used a fake power of attorney to put the shop shares under Barry's name.

I walked to the door.

I rested my hand on the doorknob but didn't move.

In my previous life, I opened the door for her. She walked into my home, ate my food, lived in my house, and finally sent me to that place.

I stepped aside, grabbed my phone from the entryway cabinet, and dialed a number.

I said, "Hello, locksmith? I need to change the locks on my door. Yes, right now. I'll text you the address."

The pounding on the door got even louder.

"Juliet. Are you deaf? Open the door," Mabel yelled.

I leaned against the door, listening to her fists slam against it.

My hands weren't shaking anymore.

Once I finished the call, I dialed the bank's customer service next.

I said, "Hello, I want to report the following bank cards as lost and freeze all of them."

I rattled off the card numbers, and the rep confirmed my identity.

Outside, Mabel's voice shifted from nagging to full-on yelling.

She shouted, "Juliet, what's with that attitude? Show some respect!"

I hung up and swung the door open.

Mabel was standing there, her face red and arms full of bags.

I looked at her.

On the first day she moved in during my previous life, she took my hand with a smile and said she would cook for me from then on so I could focus on running the shop.

She was smiling now too, but the smile was stiff after I left her waiting for ten minutes.

"Mabel." I stood my ground in the doorway, not letting her pass.

I said, "The property deed for this house is in my name. I paid the down payment, and I covered every monthly mortgage payment. This house has nothing to do with Barry."

The smile vanished from Mabel's face.

She asked, "What are you trying to say?"

"You can stay here if you want. The rent is three thousand dollars a month, payable six months in advance, with a one-month security deposit and three months' rent up front," I said.

The bags slipped from Mabel's hands and hit the floor.

She snapped, "Juliet, are you out of your mind? I'm your husband's mother. How could you charge me rent?"

I replied, "No one should live in a fully paid house owned by someone else without paying a single penny."

Mabel's mouth opened and closed a couple of times, but she couldn't get a word out.

I bent down, grabbed her bags, and shoved them right back into her hands.

I said, "I saw Barry's paycheck for this month. His take-home pay is three thousand dollars.

"You can squeeze into his bedroom if you want, but from today on, all visitors to my home must knock before entering."

Neighbors poked their heads out into the hallway.

Mabel's face was so red, it reached all the way down her neck.

She turned around, pulled out her phone, and started dialing.

"Barry. Your wife has lost her mind. She won't let me in. Come back here right now," she said.

I closed the door.

It wouldn't make a difference even if Barry came.

The locksmith arrived twenty minutes later.

The old lock cylinder was thrown into the trash, and only one new key was made. It sat in my pocket.

My phone buzzed. It was Barry calling.

I looked at the screen and ignored it.

When the call ended, I opened my banking app and transferred 150 thousand dollars I had saved before the wedding out of our joint account and into my mom's account.

In my previous life, they used this money to pay for the psychiatric ward.

In this life, they would never touch a cent of it.

My phone buzzed again, six missed calls in a row.

I put the phone on silent, walked into the bedroom, and pulled out a USB drive from the bottom of the wardrobe.

This USB drive held the original documents for all the recipes from my patisserie. In my previous life, Delilah copied the backup from the shop's computer.

I slipped the USB drive into my inner pocket.

Then I settled on the edge of the bed, pulled out a sheet of paper, and started writing.

The first line: [Mabel, forged power of attorney. Timeline: June.]

The second line: [Barry was cheating on me with Delilah. Timeline: Before Mabel moved in, ongoing.]

The third line: [Delilah stole the recipes. Timeline: August.]

In my previous life, I knew nothing. I fed the people around me until they were full, and finally, they bit me to death.

This time, I knew every move they would make, when they would make it, and where they would go.

I drew a line, then looped the three names together in a circle.

I heard Barry's footsteps outside. He was fiddling with the lock.

He shoved his key in, but it wouldn't turn.

He hesitated for a moment, then gave it another shot.

He started banging on the door.

Barry shouted, "Juliet, open up! Did you change the lock? Seriously?"

I folded the paper and slipped it into my bag.

I got up, walked to the door, and peeked out through the peephole.

Barry was drenched in sweat, his tie crooked. Mabel stood beside him, with four suitcases in tow.

I took a deep breath.

I opened the door.

"Barry," I said.

He froze.

Not because I had changed the lock.

It was because of the way I looked at him.

In my previous life, I looked at him with dependence, with hurt, with careful flattery.

This time, I looked at him like he was already dead.