At 5 a.m., I got a call from my son-in-law: “Come pick up your daughter at the bus stop. We don’t want her anymore.” When I arrived, my daughter was barely breathing, covered in bruises and broken bones. She sobbed, “My husband and his mother…1

She got out. The smell of wet earth and pine was thick in the air. She grabbed the heavy gas can. The fuel sloshed inside, a heavy, liquid promise of destruction.

She walked up the hill. The mansion loomed ahead, a white monstrosity glowing with soft, amber light. It looked peaceful. It looked like a postcard.

Margaret reached the back patio. Through the French doors, she could see into the living room.

Brad was there. He was sitting on the leather sofa, holding a tumbler of scotch. He was watching TV. He looked annoyed, shifting comfortably, adjusting a pillow.

He wasn’t grieving. He wasn’t panicked. He was relaxed.

Margaret felt a laugh bubble up in her throat—a hysterical, jagged thing. He had beaten his wife into a coma that morning, and now he was watching sports.

She uncapped the gas can. The fumes hit her instantly, sharp and chemical, stinging her eyes.