Maureen sat in the dark, staring at her shaking hands.
They still smelled faintly of almond extract.
The small vial lay in her bathroom drawer now, tucked beneath lipstick tubes and sealed envelopes—harmless-looking. Innocent.
But not to Celeste.
Never to Celeste.
She'd learned about the allergy when they were fifteen—watched Celeste swell and panic after a pastry mistake at a school event. The memory was seared into her. A single drop could've killed her then. Just as it should've tonight.
But it didn't.
Maureen blinked, still stunned.
She had stirred it into the drink herself. Watched Celeste lift the cup to her lips. Sip.
And sip again.
She had waited—almost trembling with a sick sort of anticipation.
But nothing happened.
Celeste smiled. Said it was delicious.
Delicious.
Maureen's stomach had dropped.
No hives. No coughing. No gasping.
Just soft laughter and polite conversation.
And now, hours later, Maureen was spiraling.
Not with guilt.
With confusion.
"She should've reacted," she whispered to herself. "She should've…"
She pressed her palms into her temples, trying to think. She didn't misdose. She knew exactly what she put in. Exactly what Celeste was deathly allergic to.
So why was she fine?
Unless—
She froze.
Her eyes flicked up slowly to the mirror across the room, catching her own reflection in the dark.
"…Unless she isn't the real Celeste."