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.

The corkscrew slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the hardwood floor. The sound was sharp, shocking.

“Claire?” he stammered. His eyes darted to the window, looking for the car, looking for the wreckage, looking for the flames he had scripted. “You… you’re here?”

“I am,” I said, bending down to pick up the corkscrew. It was sharp. Cold. I held it in my hand, feeling the weight of it. “I decided to take an Uber. The brakes felt a little loose on the way over. I didn’t want to drive Mom and Sarah on those winding roads. You know how dangerous Route 9 is at night.”

Logan’s face went gray. The color drained out of him as if someone had pulled a plug. “Loose? Did you… did you check them?”