The Decimal Point That Ruined Her

When I opened my eyes again, the world was no longer white, sterile, and smelling of industrial bleach. I was back in my first year of grad school.

In the dim light of the stairwell, Beth was hunched over, her eyes rimmed with red, her knuckles white as she gripped a tuition past-due notice.

In my first life, I had found her here, sobbing because she couldnt afford the semester. I had handed over five thousand dollarsevery cent Id clawed together from late-night tutoring and skipping meals. She had clung to me then, her voice thick with tears, swearing I was the most important person in her life.

But by graduation, my senior thesis data had vanished into thin air.

A week later, Beth published a paper with the exact same findings, claiming lead authorship. She didn't stop thereshe married our department head, Dr. Whitaker. When I confronted her, she simply leaned into his arm, looked at me with pity, and told the board I was "unstable." She said I had "persecutory delusions."

That was how they dragged me to the psychiatric ward. For three years, I lived in a fog of sedatives, my veins hardening from the injections, until I finally died in a bed that wasn't mine.

Beth sat on the concrete step, her shoulders shaking with rhythmic sobs. The notice was a crumpled ball in her hand, then smoothed out, then crushed again.

I stood over her, the five thousand dollars Id just withdrawn from the bank heavy in my pocket.

In my last life, I didnt hesitate. Id pressed the cash into her palms like a lifeline.

This life, I just watched her cry. All I could see was that hospital bed. The peeling white ceiling. The needle marks mapping my forearms. I could still feel the phantom chill of the sedatives turning my blood into lead.

Beth looked up, tears snagged in her lashes, her lip trembling.

"Julie, Im tapped out. My moms medical bills... the house... we just don't have it. If I don't pay this by Friday, Im out of the program. I'll have to go back home."

I knelt down, but I only pulled one thousand dollars from my pocket. I laid the bills across her knee.

Beth froze. She looked at the stack, then at me.

"Take this for now," I said, my voice steady. "For the rest, Ill help you talk to the department. There are work-study positions available. If you apply, you wont have to pay it all back at once, and you wont owe me nearly as much."

Beth stared at the money. She didnt move.

"Is... is this it?"

"One thousand is a lot, Beth. I make fifteen an hour tutoring. It took me months to save this."

I pulled a sheet of paper and a pen from my bag.

"Write me a promissory note. Its not that I don't trust youits just a habit Im trying to start. For my own records."

Beth took the pen. Her fingers hitched for a fraction of a second. Then she smiled. It was a smile I knew too wellthe corners of her mouth went up, but her eyes remained cold and flat.

"Right. Of course. Youre being so sweet."

She scribbled the note and handed it back. I folded it carefully and tucked it into the hidden inner pocket of my backpack.

On the walk back to the dorms, she looped her arm through mine. Her voice was still watery.

"Julie, thank you. Seriously. Ill never forget what youve done for me. You're my sister."

"Mhm," I murmured.

You said that last time, too, I thought. Right before you locked me in a cage.

I didnt sleep that night.

Once Beths breathing turned heavy and even, I crawled out of bed and opened my laptop. I exported every single byte of my experimental data.

One copy to a private cloud.

One copy to an encrypted Dropbox.

One copy in a password-protected zip file sent to a burner email address.

Finally, I sent a summary to my primary email with the subject: Thesis Progress Backup - Oct 17.

Three locations. Three different, complex passwords.

I watched the "Upload Complete" checkmark flicker on the screen and shut the laptop. Outside, the hallway light was buzzing, flickering in the dark.

Beth rolled over in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent.

The next morning at the lab meeting, our advisor, Dr. Whitaker, called for progress reports. He was forty-one, perpetually single, wore gold-rimmed glasses, and spoke with a slow, measured condescension that people mistook for wisdom.

In my first life, I thought he was a visionary. Now I knew the truth: he was a weak man, easily swayed by a woman who knew how to play the victim.

When it was Beths turn, she stood up. Her voice was thin. She got two sentences in before her voice cracked.

"Im so sorry, Dr. Whitaker. Ive had some... family emergencies. My progress is a bit behind where I wanted it to be."

Whitaker pushed his glasses up his nose, his tone softening instantly.

"Its alright, Beth. If youre struggling, talk to me. You don't have to carry the weight of the world alone."

Beth nodded, dabbing at her eyes as she sat down. The other PhD candidates in the room shifted, their expressions full of easy sympathy.

Then it was my turn.

I flipped the slide to the third page and began detailing the data Id pulled that week. Whitaker cut me off halfway through.

"Whats the basis for this variable? Did you check the literature?"

"Dr. Thompsons 2019 paper, and the MIT study from last spring"

"Are you sure? I recall the MIT findings being inconsistent with your trajectory."

I rattled off the DOI numbers and the specific methodology citations. Whitaker scrolled through his tablet, silent for a long moment.

"...Fine. Keep running it."

After the meeting, Beth sidled up to me. "Julie, that experimental design was actually really clever. Do you think you could send me the slides? I want to learn from how you structured the variables."

I pulled my thumb drive from the port and dropped it into my pocket.

"Once Ive cleaned up the formatting, Ill send it over."

I never sent it.

She asked again a week later. I told her Id forgotten. She didnt ask a third time.

But that night in the dorm, as she lay on the top bunk, she spoke into the darkness.

"Julie? Are you mad at me?"

"No. Why?"

"I don't know. You just... feel different lately."

I pulled the duvet up to my chin.

"Just tired, Beth. The lab is a grind. Don't overthink it."

There was a long silence.

"Oh. Okay. Goodnight."

"Night."

I lay there with my eyes open, listening to her toss and turn above me.

Different? Of course I was different.

The Julie she knew had died on day 1,087 in the psych ward.

The weeks blurred into a focused, rhythmic haze.

I lived in the lab. Every time a result came in, I synced it across my backups. I sent myself a weekly email log. My lab notebook never left my sight; I took it to the cafeteria, the gym, even the bathroom.

Beth, meanwhile, began cultivating her "tribe." She started bringing lattes to the labone for everyone, except me.

She didnt "forget." She would count heads right in front of me.

"One, two, three... okay, thats everyone who asked," shed say, then turn on her heel.

Hannah, a senior student, walked over with her cup, whispering, "Did you and Beth have a falling out?"

"No," I said.

"Then why"

"Maybe shes just stressed."

Hannah looked at me skeptically but let it drop.

In mid-November, I was in the campus restroom when I heard voices in the stalls.

"Julie is just... shes getting paranoid," Beths voice echoed against the tile. "She locks everything. She carries that notebook like its the Holy Grail. Who does that? Its not normal."

"Wait, really?" That was Kaitlyn, a junior. "That sounds a bit intense."

"I live with her, Kaitlyn. I see it every night. She wouldn't even share a basic PowerPoint with me. I just wanted to learn, and she acted like I was trying to rob her. Its honestly kind of scary."

The sound of the running faucet drowned out my footsteps. I dried my hands, looked at my reflectioncolder, sharper than beforeand pushed the door open.

Kaitlyn was just coming out of a stall. Her face went beet-red.

"J-Julie..."

"The dispenser is out of paper towels," I said calmly. "You might want to let maintenance know."

I walked out.

From that day on, the atmosphere in the lab shifted. When I spoke during group sessions, no one followed up. When the group went to lunch, they didn't look my way. Id walk into the breakroom and the conversation would die like a snuffed candle.

I saw Kaitlyn whispering to another girl as I walked by with my backpack. "See? Shes got the notebook. Everywhere. Isn't that a bit much?"

I filled my water bottle and kept walking.

In early December, Whitaker called me into his office. He sat behind his mahogany desk, fingers interlaced.

"Julie, Ive been hearing some concerning reports about your lack of collaboration."

"Concerning how, exactly?"

"Data sharing. Literature discussions. You seem to be isolating yourself from the team."

"My data is in a critical phase. Once its ready for publication, Ill be happy to share."

Whitaker adjusted his glasses. "Academia requires an open mind, Julie. You can't produce world-class work in a vacuum."

"Dr. Whitaker, youve seen my progress. The trends are excellent"

"I know," he snapped. "But a good project doesn't excuse a toxic personality. This lab is a team. Do you understand?"

I gripped my notebook through the fabric of my bag. I said nothing.

"Fine. Go back to work. Think about what I said."

As I opened the door, I ran into Beth. She was carrying a steaming cup of coffee. She blinked, surprised to see me, then offered a small, sympathetic smile.

"Julie? Did the meeting go okay?"

I brushed past her without a word.

Behind me, I heard her soft knock. "Dr. Whitaker? I brought you an Americano. I saw your light was still on and figured you were pulling another late one."

Whitakers voice drifted through the closing door, ten times softer than it had been with me. "Youre too kind, Beth. Come in, sit down."

I walked faster.

Back at my desk, I opened my laptop. Thirty-two backup emails sat in my inbox, each with a clear, unforgeable timestamp. I opened the latest one. Three control groups. Perfect results.

The project was six months away from being a breakthrough.

In my last life, Beths name was on the header of that breakthrough.

Not this time.

I closed the email and opened a new document. Title: Beth - Loan and Repayment Log.

She hadn't paid back a single cent.

I saved the document, synced it to three clouds, and shut my eyes.

From the top bunk, Beths voice drifted down.

"Julie?"

"Yeah."

"What do you think of Dr. Whitaker? As a person, I mean."

"Hes an advisor. Does it matter if hes a good person?"

Beth let out a small, airy laugh. "I guess not. Goodnight."

I didnt say it back. I stared at the ceiling and counted to three hundred until her breathing leveled out. Then I rolled over, pressing my notebook under my pillow.

By spring, Beths "assistance" to Whitaker was undeniable.

Mondays, she organized his desk.

Wednesdays, she picked up his dry cleaning.

Fridays, she handled his administrative filings.

Weekends... she started going to his condo to "help with his organization."

The lab saw it. No one said anything. Except Hannah, who caught me in the breakroom once.

"Is Beth... going a little overboard?"

I shook my head. "None of my business."

"But shes"

"Hannah, just focus on your own thesis."

Hannah looked at me for a few seconds, sighed, and walked away.

In late March, I submitted my grant application for the next phase of testing. Two weeks went by. Nothing. Four weeks. Silence.

I went to Whitakers office.

"Dr. Whitaker, my grant application has been sitting in 'pending' for a month."

"Im still reviewing the direction of your project," he said, not looking up. "Theres no rush."

"But the reagents are going to"

"I said theres no rush."

As I walked out, I saw Beths grant approval posted on the department bulletin board.

Submission date: March 28th.

Approval date: March 31st.

Three days. My application had been rotting in his drawer for a month, but hers took seventy-two hours.

I stood in front of that board for a long time. A junior student walked past, murmuring, "Still looking at that, Julie? Beths research direction is just really solid, I guess."

I didn't answer.

In April, my funding finally came through. It was a third less than what Id asked for. I didnt argue. I took two thousand dollars of my own savings to bridge the gap. The experiment couldn't stop.

By May, the core data began to finalize. All three control groups were yielding results that were even better than Id hoped.

I immediately synced them to my three clouds. I sent myself two emailsone with the attachment, one with just the raw findings and the date.

Then, I opened my physical lab notebook. I copied the data in my neatest handwriting.

Then I paused.

I flipped to the back of the notebook. I wrote out a second set of data.

This set was nearly identical to the real one, with one tiny, fatal flaw: in the third control group, I changed the p-value from 0.003 to 0.03.

A single decimal point.

To an untrained eye, or even a tired one, it looked fine. But anyone who actually understood the research would know that a p-value of 0.03 meant the results weren't statistically significant. The entire conclusion would fall apart.

I marked those pages with a sticky note: FOR VERIFICATION.

Then, I closed the book and left it on my desk.

Usually, it went everywhere with me. Today, I left it right there, in plain sight.

Before heading to the cafeteria, I adjusted my desk lamp. I tucked a single strand of my hair under the base of the lamp.

When I returned forty-five minutes later, the lamp had been moved two centimeters.

The hair was gone.

The notebook was exactly where Id left it, but the sticky note had been moved by one page.

I sat down, said nothing, and started typing my draft.

Late that night, I stopped by the security office on my way out. The guard was scrolling through his phone.

"Hey, I think I dropped my ID card in the building earlier. Could you help me check the footage to see if anyone picked it up?"

"Which floor?"

"Third."

"Lets take a look."

He pulled up the playback.

6:32 PM: I leave the lab for dinner.

6:41 PM: Beth enters the lab.

She walks straight to my desk. She looks around, then opens my notebook. She flips to the backto the "bait" data.

She pulls out her phone. Snap. Snap. Snap.

She closes the book, replaces it perfectly, and leaves.

The whole thing took less than three hundred seconds.

The guard looked up. "See your ID?"

"Oh, no. Must have dropped it outside. Thanks anyway."

"No problem."

I walked into the stairwell and stood in the dark. The motion-sensor lights stayed off because I wasn't moving.

I leaned against the wall and smiled.

Okay, Beth. You took the bait.

From June to September, I waited.

I waited for Beth to write her paper using that poisoned data. I waited for her to commit.

I did nothing but run my own experiments and give my usual, lukewarm updates to Whitaker. His attitude remained cold. His attitude toward Beth remained... indulgent.

In late September, Beth took a week off, saying she was visiting her mother.

I was at the lab printer when I saw a discarded page in the recycling bin. It was a Table of Contents for a manuscript.

The title was nearly identical to my research.

Lead Author: Beth Miller.

Corresponding Author: Dr. Richard Whitaker.

I folded the paper and put it in my bag. I scanned it, uploaded it, and emailed it to myself.

Mid-October, Beths paper was published.

It landed in a high-impact journal. The lab was buzzing. During our weekly meeting, Whitaker stood up and singled her out.

"Beths work is a testament to clarity and drive. She is quite possibly the most brilliant student Ive had the pleasure of mentoring in years."

Beth stood up, blushing, looking modest. "I couldn't have done it without Dr. Whitakers guidance."

The look they exchanged was one everyone in the room understood.

After the meeting, I sat at my desk and downloaded her paper. I read every word.

The methodology, the frameworkit was mine.

I scrolled to Section Three: Results and Analysis.

Third control group: p=0.03.

She hadn't even caught it. Shed copied the error, character for character.

I closed my laptop and exhaled.

Game on.

One week later, the University Academic Integrity Committee received an anonymous tip.

The tip didn't target Beth. It targeted me.

The report claimed that I, Julie, had been spying on Beths research, stealing her ideas, and making "hostile remarks" about her in private.

Attached were five "witness statements" from my lab mates.

Kaitlyn wrote: Julie was always trying to look at Beths screen.

A junior named Mark wrote: Julie told me Beths data was 'fake' to try and discredit her.

Each statement was a half-truth or a fabrication, woven together to create a portrait of a jealous, unstable girl.

The committee launched an investigation.

I was placed on administrative leave. My keycard was confiscated.

Whitaker held a lab meeting without naming me, but his message was clear: "Academic dishonesty is a red line. Anyone who crosses it is dead to this profession."

The room looked at me. No one spoke up. Hannah kept her head down, flipping through her notes.

That afternoon, the universitys anonymous message board exploded.

[LEAK: Grad student in the Bio-Sciences caught stealing roommate's thesis]

The thread was vicious.

Kick the academic trash out.

Imagine stealing from the girl who literally helped you pay tuition.

I heard shes a total psycho. A real backstabber.

The last comment had the most upvotes.

I shut down the forum. My phone rang. It was my mother.

"Honey," her voice was trembling. "Tell me the truth. Did you... is what theyre saying true?"

I gripped the phone. "No, Mom. I didn't do it."

Silence. "Then... then you have to explain it to them. You have to make them listen."

"I will."

I sat on the edge of my dorm bed. Beth wasn't there. Shed been staying "out"likely at Whitakers condo.

I looked at my hands.

In my first life, I would have broken here. I would have run to Whitaker crying, tried to explain it to the committee, sounding more guilty with every desperate word. And then Beth would have started "worrying" about my mental health.

Not this time.

I set my phone to Do Not Disturb and opened my evidence folder.

The next day, Beth came back to the dorm to pack a bag. She saw me at my desk, hesitated, and then sat down across from me.

"Julie."

"Mhm."

"How are you... holding up?"

"Im fine."

"I heard about the investigation. I don't even know what to say. I just think the pressure got to you."

She reached out and put her hand over mine. Her skin was cool.

"Maybe you should see someone? The campus clinic has great counselors. I can make an appointment for you."

I looked at her hand. Perfectly manicured. A small bite mark on her middle fingera nervous habit she had when she was lying.

In my last life, this was the hand that signed my commitment papers.

"I don't need a counselor," I said, pulling my hand away. "Im perfectly sane."

Beth sighed. "Julie, don't bottle it up. Im really worried about you. Im afraid youll do something... drastic."

I looked her in the eye. "Beth."

"Yeah?"

"When are you going to pay me back that thousand dollars?"

Her face stiffened for a heartbeat. Then she smiled.

"See? This is what I mean. Youre fixating on money. Its not a normal way to react to all of this. You really need help, Julie."

She grabbed her things and left. As the door clicked shut, I heard her pick up her phone in the hallway.

"Dr. Whitaker? Yeah, shes getting worse... she said some really strange things... Im scared, Richard. What do we do?"

Her voice faded as she hit the stairs.

I opened my laptop and logged the time and content of the conversation.

Save. Sync. Email.

The hearing was set for Wednesday.

I made one more call.

"Hi, is this the Facilities and Security office? Id like to request a formal backup of the hallway footage from the Science Building. May 17th. Yes, I have the case number from the Deans office."