After I turned myself in to the police for my crime, my fiancé, Mark, rushed over, furious. “You didn’t steal anything,” he demanded. “Why did you confess?”
I just shrugged. I was ready to do the time.
In my last life, Mark’s childhood sweetheart, Stella, came back to the country and started causing trouble
everywhere.
First, she shoplifted from a mall. Then she dined and dashed at a restaurant. Finally, she ran a red light and
killed someone with her car.
When the mall manager, the restaurant owner, and the victim’s family all came to me, I was baffled. Why
were they blaming me for things Stella had done?
Later, when they accused me in front of the police of theft, skipping out on a bill, and a fatal hit–and–run, I finally understood. They had mistaken Stella for me.
But Stella and I looked nothing alike.
I demanded they review the security footage.
The footage showed that the person stealing, dining and dashing, and committing the hit–and–run was, in
fact, me.
Words meant nothing against video evidence.
The victim’s family, mad with grief, stabbed me to death on the spot.
To my dying day, I never understood why, in every single piece of footage, Stella’s crimes were pinned on
- me.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day Stella stole from the mall…
