Logan’s face twisted—rage, panic, humiliation. He struggled, pulling away, shouting at the house as if I could save him. “Claire! You did this! You turned them against me! You’re sick!”
I didn’t answer. I stood in the hallway with Megan’s hand gripping mine, listening as the cuffs clicked, listening as the story Logan wrote for us finally fell apart under real light.
Later that night, detectives took another statement. They told me the tow company had logged timestamps, that the brake system would be examined by forensics, that Logan’s email and texts and the attempted entry mattered. They told me—carefully—that what I did likely saved lives.
When the house finally went quiet again, Megan sank onto the floor and started crying like she’d been holding her breath for hours.
Our mom whispered, “I didn’t know he was capable of this.”
I stared at my phone—at Logan’s earlier texts, at the funeral home confirmation, at the motion alert.
And I understood the last piece with a clarity that didn’t feel like relief:
Logan hadn’t been joking about a funeral.
He’d been scheduling one.
