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.

“I saw the lines,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “Henderson showed me. And I provided the detectives with the receipt for the heavy-duty wire cutters you bought on my Amazon Prime account last week. You really should log out of shared devices, Logan. It’s sloppy. And using my account? That was just rude.”

Logan stared at his mother. The betrayal was absolute. His jaw dropped. “You… you called them? You called the police on me?”

“I protect the family name,” Carolyn said coldly. “A murderer is not part of this family. A murderer gets caught. A Pierce does not get caught. But you… you got caught before you even started. You failed on both counts. You are a liability.”

“Mom!” Logan screamed. “Help me! Don’t let them take me!”

“You are under arrest for three counts of Attempted Murder in the First Degree,” the detective said, stepping forward with handcuffs.

Logan fought. It was brief and pathetic. He tried to shove the officer, but he was tackled to the linoleum floor of my mother’s kitchen. The table shook. The wine glasses rattled.

“You’re dead, Claire!” Logan yelled as they hauled him up, his face pressed against the floor, saliva dripping from his mouth. “You hear me? You’re dead! I’ll finish it!”

I walked over to him. I looked down.

“Actually, Logan,” I said softly. “According to your email, I’m already buried. So you’re just yelling at a ghost.”