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.

“You’re insane,” Carolyn hissed, her eyes narrowing. “Get this car off my property or I’m calling the police. I will have you committed.”

“Call them,” I challenged. “Please. I want them here. But if you want to save the ‘Pierce Family Name’ from being splashed across the front page of the Gazette tomorrow morning as ‘Murderers’, you will call Mr. Henderson first. He’s neutral. He’s your friend. He’s the only mechanic you trust with your Jag. Let him look.”

Carolyn stared at me. She saw something in my eyes—a resolve she hadn’t seen before. A hardness. She realized, perhaps for the first time, that I wasn’t just Logan’s wife. I was a threat. And threats had to be assessed before they could be neutralized.

She pulled out her phone. Her hands were trembling slightly.