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.

Sarah came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She looked beautiful, alive, vibrant. She hugged me tight.

“Where’s the car?” she asked, looking over my shoulder. “I thought you were picking us up? We were waiting by the window.”

“Change of plans,” I smiled, though my face felt stiff, like a mask. “I took an Uber. The car felt… funny. I didn’t want to risk it with precious cargo.”

Logan appeared in the doorway of the dining room.

He was holding a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. He was wearing his favorite blue sweater, the one I bought him for Christmas last year. He looked handsome. He looked like the man I married. He looked like a man who was about to become a widower.