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 stepped out of the Uber, thanking the driver and sending him away. I stood alone in the driveway, the wind whipping my hair across my face. I didn’t smile. I didn’t offer a polite greeting. I didn’t apologize.

“Call Mr. Henderson, Carolyn,” I said. My voice was shaking, but it was firm. It was the voice of someone who has nothing left to lose and everything to prove.

Carolyn blinked, taken aback by my tone. She was used to deference. “Mr. Henderson? The mechanic? Why on earth would I—”

“Call him. Now.”

“Claire, have you been drinking? You look manic. I’m calling Logan.”

“Your son just tried to kill me,” I said. The words hung in the cold night air, heavy and absolute.

Carolyn froze. Her hand, halfway to her pocket to retrieve her phone, stopped in mid-air. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. “That is a disgusting accusation. Logan loves you. He tolerates your moods, your family, your inadequacies, but he loves you.”

“He loves me so much he paid for my funeral yesterday,” I said, stepping closer, invading her personal space. “And Sarah’s. And probably yours, if you were in the car. Would you like to see the invoice? Or would you like to see the car?”