My Roommate Stole My Life

She stole my birthday. She stole my grades. She stole my birth mother's love. But the worst thing my roommate Poppy Sinclair ever stole was my identity. Because the "godmother" she bragged about — the woman who paid for her travels, her concerts, her life — was mine first. My birth mother, the one who threw me away. Now she's back. I have one question for the woman who tried to steal my future: When the devil's been sleeping in the bed next to you all along — who can you trust?