The glass frame shatters into a million pieces, cutting into Mariah’s face.My face.I sink down onto the sofa, trying to get a grip, not wanting to lose my breath again. My mind whirls with confusion, trying to make sense of it all. I’ve never posed for a photo with a sword. Hell, I’ve never held a freaking sword to begin with. And yet, there’s no mistaking it. This is a picture of me. My face. My body. It’s absolutely identical, down to the heart-shaped birth mark on my left shoulder—the one Craig likes to nibble on when kissing me in the hallway—and the same winding daisy chain I’d regrettably had tattooed around my ankle last spring break, much to my parents’ chagrin.The girl in the photo—she isn’t just a lookalike, someone who could easily be mistaken as me; she’s an exact replica. She is, in all respects, me.But how is that possible?A loud knock on the apartment door causes me to nearly jump out of my skin. I glance over, nervous. Who could it be? Then I remember.
