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.

“Oh, I had someone look at them,” I said casually, walking past him to pour myself a glass of wine. My hand didn’t shake. I poured the red liquid, watching it swirl. “Carolyn actually.”

“My mother?” Logan’s voice cracked. It was high, thready. “Why would you take the car to my mother’s?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” I lied. “And Mr. Henderson was available. You know how much she trusts him. He’s the best.”

Logan leaned against the doorframe. He looked like he was going to be sick. He pulled out his phone, checking it frantically. He was waiting for a text from his mother. Or maybe a news alert about a crash that never happened. He was waiting for his plan to align with reality, but reality had gone off script.

“What did Henderson say?” Logan asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“He said it was interesting,” I took a sip of the wine. It was a deep red, rich and tannic. “He said he’d never seen wear and tear like that. Almost looked… deliberate.”

“That’s crazy,” Logan laughed. It was a high, thin sound, bordering on hysterical. “Cars break. It happens. Old lines snap.”