The bag of fried chicken from Ingles was still warm in my hand when I heard my stepson’s voice cutting through the darkness of my garage. “Yeah, I already cut the brake line.” I froze, fingers tightening on the paper bag until it crinkled. Through the crack in the side door, I could see the blue glow of a phone screen illuminating Trevor’s face as he stood near my workbench, shoulders relaxed, discussing my death like he was ordering pizza.
“See you at his funeral tomorrow.”
The words hit me like ice water.
For a second, my body forgot how to move. The garage smelled the way it always did—motor oil, concrete dust, that sharp bite of December air leaking through the gaps.
I’d stopped at Ingles on the way home from work because I thought maybe we could have one normal evening, a peace offering after months of tension that nobody wanted to acknowledge out loud. Now I was standing in the cold holding fried chicken while my thirty-two-year-old stepson casually discussed my funeral.
“You sure about this?” That was Deborah’s voice, faint and tinny through the phone speaker.
My wife of eleven years. She didn’t sound shocked or angry or horrified. She sounded cautious, like she was confirming a dinner reservation.
“Yeah,” Trevor said, his tone flat and businesslike.
“It’s done. He won’t make it to Monday.” He actually chuckled, and that sound—that casual amusement—made my stomach turn.
I waited for Deborah to say my name, to say stop, to say anything that sounded like a conscience. Instead, she exhaled, and it sounded like relief.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
“Just be careful.”
My boot scuffed the concrete just once, and Trevor’s head snapped toward the door. I didn’t breathe, my chest burning from holding it in, but he didn’t come looking. After a beat, he turned back to the phone.
“Yeah, I’ll text you when it’s done.” I slid out quietly, pulling the door shut until it rested without clicking, then moved fast around the side of the house.
The neighborhood looked too normal—porch lights glowing up and down Kuga Road, Christmas wreaths already hanging on doors, Mrs. Wallace’s dog barking once before going quiet.
Hendersonville doing what it always does: going to bed early, pretending trouble only happens on the news. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped my keys.
The story doesn’t end here –
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