I went home for car papers—and overheard my husband laughing on the phone: “I messed with her brakes.” Then he added, “See you at your sister’s funeral,” and I realized the “accident” he planned wasn’t meant for me alone.

Part 1: The Pre-Paid Grave
The screen of Logan’s laptop glowed with a sickening, artificial light in the darkened office. The rest of the house was silent, wrapped in the heavy stillness of 3:00 AM, but my heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, loud enough, I feared, to wake the man sleeping upstairs.

My hand trembled as I hovered the cursor over the email, the subject line burning itself into my retinas like an afterimage of the sun.

Subject: Confirmation of Service – S. Pierce – Nov 14th.

November 14th. Tomorrow.