Julieta scrambled backward across the floorboards. Her perfectly styled hair was a tangled mess around her face. She looked unhinged.

She dropped the sweet voice entirely. Her tone was a vicious screech as she called Bridget a psychotic bitch.

Julieta pushed herself up. She pointed a shaking finger at Bridget, threatening to tell everyone in town that Bridget was a desperate slut who threw herself at men.

She screamed that she would find Bridget's mother at the factory and make sure the whole family was humiliated out of town.

Bridget didn't flinch. She didn't blink. She just stood there, letting the venom wash over her like rain on concrete.

When Julieta finally stopped screaming, Bridget lowered her head. A low, dark chuckle vibrated in her chest.

The sound was so unnatural, so devoid of fear, that it made the hair on Julieta's arms stand up. She instinctively took a step back.

Bridget stopped laughing. She raised her head. Her eyes were dead, looking at Julieta like she was already a corpse.

She closed the distance between them, using her height to loom over the trembling girl.

Bridget lowered her voice to a dangerous whisper. She dropped a single, heavy word into the room: "Defamation."

She systematically laid out the consequences. If Julieta spoke one more word about her, Bridget would file a civil suit in federal court.

She promised to mail a formal complaint, along with a copy of the county Sheriff's official police report, directly to the volunteer dispatch agency and the principal of Julieta's high school. She asked Julieta to imagine how fast her 'outstanding community service' record would be reclassified as moral misconduct.

Julieta's pupils dilated in pure terror. She didn't understand the legal mechanics, but the threat to her future was crystal clear.

Bridget leaned in closer. She mocked Julieta for being a parasite who hid behind boys, entirely unequipped to play a real adult's game.

The words sliced through the last shred of Julieta's ego.

Julieta's whole body trembled. She clenched her fists so hard her manicured nails dug into her palms, drawing crescent moons of blood.

She let out a frustrated, defeated scream. She shoved Tanya out of the way with brutal force.

Julieta snatched her jacket off the chair and bolted out the door, running like a terrified animal.

Tanya and Gretel exchanged one panicked look. They hugged the walls and scurried out of the cabin right behind her.

The cabin fell into absolute silence. Bridget was alone with the scattered makeup and the dust.

She exhaled a long, shaky breath. The adrenaline crashed. A violent wave of dizziness hit her brain.

She grabbed the edge of the wooden table. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the spinning room to stop. Her knuckles turned white from the grip.

After fifteen seconds, the nausea passed. She reached into her pocket and touched the letters. Her brain rebooted.

If Julieta only had half the letters, the hypocrite Kurtis definitely had the rest.

Bridget opened her eyes. The weakness vanished, replaced by cold determination. She walked out of the cabin.

The afternoon sun hit her face. She squinted, scanning the busy dirt paths of the camp.

She turned toward the supply distribution tents. It was the highest traffic area for the volunteers.

Her boots crunched against the gravel. Her pace was slow, conserving energy, but every step was locked onto a target.

As she rounded the corner of a corrugated metal storage shed, she heard it. A deep, fake, overly dramatic male voice.

Bridget stopped dead. She pressed her back against the metal siding. She stared at the back of the boy who was currently reciting poetry to a new, starry-eyed girl.

Bridget stepped out from the shadow of the metal shed. She intentionally brought her boot down hard on the gravel. The loud crunch echoed in the tight space.

The girl listening to the poetry frowned at the interruption. She turned, saw the absolute murder in Bridget's eyes, and immediately scurried away without a word.

Kurtis turned around. When he saw Bridget-the girl who was supposed to be dying in a hospital bed-standing right in front of him, his eyes widened in panic.

He blinked rapidly. He forced his facial muscles to shift, pasting on a look of deep, agonizing concern.

Kurtis took a step forward. He reached his hand out, aiming for her shoulder, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Bridget, my god, are you okay?"

Bridget didn't hesitate. She swung her arm and slapped his hand away. The loud smack of flesh on flesh stung her palm, but the force made Kurtis hiss in pain.

The mask of the caring gentleman cracked. Kurtis pulled his hand back to his chest, his eyes turning dark and defensive.

Bridget didn't give him a second to speak. She held out her open palm. Her voice was flat. "The letters."

Kurtis swallowed hard. He tugged at his collar, his eyes darting around the empty space. He let out a nervous laugh and played dumb, claiming he had no idea what she meant.

The corner of Bridget's mouth curled up. She pulled out the nuclear option.

She lifted her wrist, staring at a watch she wasn't wearing. She spoke in a calm, conversational tone, delivering a complete lie.

She told Kurtis that her mother, Corda, was currently sitting in the county Sheriff's office.

She enunciated the charges perfectly: Using his status as a city volunteer to deceive and corrupt the morals of a local minor, driving her to a public suicide attempt. She asked him how the Sheriff would handle a city boy ruining a hometown girl.

The words "Sheriff" and "harassment" hit Kurtis like a freight train. All the color drained from his face, leaving him a sickly gray.

He started stuttering uncontrollably. He waved his hands, pleading that she wrote them willingly, that he never touched her.

Bridget took a step closer, invading his space. Her voice dropped to a demonic whisper. She reminded him that a local jury would always side with the hometown girl who almost drowned.

She laid out his future: The moment the Sheriff opened an investigation, his East Coast scholarship and his entire life would burn to the ground.

Beads of cold sweat broke out on Kurtis's forehead. His psychological defenses shattered under the weight of her flawless logic.

He stared at her, his chest heaving. He looked at her like she was a monster wearing a familiar face.

Kurtis spun around. He dropped to his knees and ripped open the zipper of his green canvas duffel bag sitting by the shed.

His hands shook so violently he could barely move the clothes aside. He dug frantically into the bottom.

He pulled out a thick stack of pink envelopes, tied together with a cheap red ribbon.

He scrambled to his feet. He shoved the stack into Bridget's hand like it was covered in acid.

He leaned in, his voice a pathetic, begging whisper. He pleaded with her to run and stop her mother before the cops came.

Bridget looked down. She ran her thumb over the edges, confirming the handwriting and the thickness. It was all of them.

She shoved the stack into her coat pocket. She looked up and hit him with a stare of pure, unadulterated disgust.

Without a single word, she turned her back on him and walked away.

Kurtis slumped against the metal shed. His legs gave out, and he slid down to the dirt, gasping for air, his shirt soaked in sweat.

Bridget walked out of the main gates of the camp. She took a deep breath of the pine-scented air. The heavy, suffocating weight that had lived in the original Bridget's chest completely dissolved.

She patted her pocket. It was time to burn it.

Bridget followed the dirt road back to the house. She pushed open the front door and walked straight across the living room to the cast-iron fireplace in the corner.

She pulled the two thick stacks of pink envelopes from her coat pocket. She didn't look at the words. She tossed them directly onto the glowing embers.

She grabbed the heavy iron poker. She stabbed at the charred wood, exposing the red-hot core. Flames immediately licked upward, catching the edges of the paper and turning the humiliation into black smoke.

The curtain leading to the kitchen was pushed aside. Corda walked out, carrying a plastic basin full of wet laundry. She stopped dead when she saw the fire.

Corda dropped the basin onto a chair. She rushed over to the fireplace, staring at the curling, burning letters. Her eyes filled with fresh tears.

Her voice trembled as she looked at Bridget, asking if it was really over. If she got them all.

Bridget set the iron poker down. She turned to face her mother. She looked at the deep wrinkles around Corda's eyes and gave a firm, single nod.

Bridget reached out and took Corda's rough hand. She led her to the worn sofa and pulled her down to sit. She decided to test the waters with the truth.

Bridget took a slow breath. She chose her words carefully. She told Corda that when she was under the water, something broke. She said she felt like a completely different person now.

She tried to hint that the old Bridget was dead and gone.

Corda's face twisted in agony. She gripped Bridget's hand with bone-crushing force.

Tears spilled down Corda's cheeks. She threw her arms around Bridget, pulling her into a tight, desperate hug. She sobbed, blaming herself for letting her daughter suffer so much trauma.

Bridget froze. Corda had completely misunderstood. The older woman thought the personality shift was a psychological defense mechanism-a trauma response to almost dying.

Bridget rested her chin on Corda's shoulder. The smell of cheap lye soap filled her nose. The weight of the mother's love was heavy and real.

Her analytical brain ran the simulation. Telling a poor, uneducated woman in 1978 that a soul from the future possessed her daughter would result in a trip to the psychiatric ward.

Bridget closed her eyes. She silently said her final goodbye to the girl who drowned. She accepted the misunderstanding. It was the perfect cover.

She wrapped her arms around Corda. She patted her back gently, whispering that she was fine, and that she would protect this family from now on.

Corda sniffled and pulled back. She wiped her face with her apron. She forced a smile and told Bridget to go sit on the porch and get some fresh air while she started dinner.

Bridget stood up. She walked to the front door and pushed the screen open.

The sun was setting, painting the sky a bruised orange. The cool evening breeze felt incredible against her flushed skin.

She leaned her forearms against the wooden railing. She closed her eyes, letting the quiet of the country wash over her.

The rhythmic crunch of heavy boots on gravel broke the silence.

Bridget opened her eyes. She looked toward the road. A tall man wearing a dark canvas jacket was walking past the house.

His dark hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes were dark, deep, and completely closed off to the world.

The fragmented memories snapped together. This was the volunteer who pulled her out of the lake. Drake Potts.

Drake felt the weight of her stare. He stopped walking. He turned his head and looked directly at her standing on the porch.

Their eyes locked. Bridget's heart gave a violent, uncontrollable thump against her ribs.

This wasn't the original Bridget's pathetic pining. This was a purely biological reaction-a mature woman's primal appreciation for a physically dominant, exceptionally built male.

Bridget straightened her spine. She didn't look away. She stared right back at him, her gaze bold, appreciative, and slightly predatory.

Drake saw the intensity in her eyes. A muscle ticked in his jaw. A flash of deep annoyance crossed his face.

He broke eye contact immediately. He grabbed the collar of his jacket, pulled it up against the wind, and quickened his pace, fully intending to pretend she didn't exist.