I released the arm and stood. He crumpled against the baseboards, a weeping, grease-stained mess, rolling his shoulder.

“Get up,” I said, pouring a glass of ice water and sitting at the one pristine corner of the broken table. “We need to discuss your mother’s visit tomorrow.”

Chapter 3: The Oscar-Winning Victim

At seven the next morning, the doorbell chimed. Christine was exactly one hour early — an old tactic to catch her target off guard.

I was in the bathroom, blending concealer over the porcelain scratches on my forearms. The fight had been an unblemished victory, but I couldn’t let her reptilian eyes catch any evidence of a struggle.

I dusted pale powder over my cheekbones to hollow out my face and simulate exhaustion.

“Mom’s here,” Tom croaked from the foyer, his voice vibrating with panic.