My eyes flew open.
I stared up at a heavy metal poster plastered on the ceiling.
Huh? I wondered. What was a poster doing on a hospital wall?
Something felt … odd.
I lifted my head, wisps of straight hair tickling my face. Not curly hair? I reached up and realized that my hair was shoulder length. And the hand that flashed by my face had thin fingers with square French-tipped nails. This was not a hospital room.
Fear shot through me. Where was I?
But that wasn’t the most important question.
Grammy Greta — what have you done to me?
Slowly, I sat up from a twin bed I’d never seen before. I stepped across discarded clothes I’d never worn before. And I stood before a mirror to ask the dreaded question.
The face staring back at me was familiar — but we’d never met. She had dark spiky hair, wide blue eyes, and rounded cheekbones. She was older than me — at least twenty-one — with an edgy aura that hinted at dark secrets.
I’d seen her face only once before — in a photograph on Eli’s wall.
My new name was Sharayah Rockingham.
I was my boyfriend’s sister.
