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 watched as my car—my death trap, a sleek black SUV that Logan insisted I drive for “safety”—was lifted off the driveway. It moved silently, like a beast being carried away in the night.

My phone buzzed on the desk, vibrating against the mahogany. A text from Logan.

He must have woken up. Or maybe he had a scheduled text set to go out, just to maintain the illusion of normalcy.

“Hey babe, just checking you’re still good to drive tonight. Don’t want you to be late for Mom’s big 6-0. The roads might be slick, so leave early. Love you.”

I stared at the words. Love you. The same words he said when he proposed. The same words he said when he isolated me from my friends.

I typed back, my fingers steady, my heart rate slowing to a predatory rhythm.

“Running a bit behind, but I’ll be there. Save me a seat.”

He had no idea I wasn’t in the car. And he had no idea where it was going.