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.

“True,” I agreed. “But usually not the day after you pay for a funeral.”

The room went dead silent. My mother stopped stirring the gravy. Sarah dropped her fork.

Logan stared at me. His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated with terror. He looked like a trapped animal.

“What did you say?” he hissed.

“I said,” I raised my voice slightly, ensuring everyone could hear, “that it’s very thoughtful of you to plan ahead, Logan. The casket? Mahogany? Classy choice. A bit expensive, but I suppose life insurance covers it. And the lilies? A nice touch. Sarah loves lilies.”

“Claire, stop,” he warned, taking a step toward me. His hands curled into fists. “You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you forwarded the confirmation email to your work address,” I said, meeting his gaze. “And I know I forwarded it to the cloud. And to Sarah. And to Mom.”

Sarah’s phone pinged. Then Mom’s. They looked down.

A siren wailed in the distance. Low at first, then rising. Closer.