“Daphne! Get out here and open this door! This is my home!”

I pressed the intercom button to speak to him one last time.

“No, Samuel. It was only ever the scene of your confession.”

The trial began six months later, in a courtroom packed with reporters.

Skin grafts covered my shoulder, and I sat tall while Samuel arrived in an expensive suit, smiling for the cameras as though he were the victim.

Joyce wore a pristine white dress and clutched a Bible as if it could shield her from the truth.

Their misplaced confidence lasted exactly forty-three minutes.