I stepped out of the Uber, thanking the driver and sending him away. I stood alone in the driveway, the wind whipping my hair across my face. I didn’t smile. I didn’t offer a polite greeting. I didn’t apologize.
“Call Mr. Henderson, Carolyn,” I said. My voice was shaking, but it was firm. It was the voice of someone who has nothing left to lose and everything to prove.
Carolyn blinked, taken aback by my tone. She was used to deference. “Mr. Henderson? The mechanic? Why on earth would I—”
“Call him. Now.”
“Claire, have you been drinking? You look manic. I’m calling Logan.”
“Your son just tried to kill me,” I said. The words hung in the cold night air, heavy and absolute.
Carolyn froze. Her hand, halfway to her pocket to retrieve her phone, stopped in mid-air. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. “That is a disgusting accusation. Logan loves you. He tolerates your moods, your family, your inadequacies, but he loves you.”
“He loves me so much he paid for my funeral yesterday,” I said, stepping closer, invading her personal space. “And Sarah’s. And probably yours, if you were in the car. Would you like to see the invoice? Or would you like to see the car?”
“You’re insane,” Carolyn hissed, her eyes narrowing. “Get this car off my property or I’m calling the police. I will have you committed.”
“Call them,” I challenged. “Please. I want them here. But if you want to save the ‘Pierce Family Name’ from being splashed across the front page of the Gazette tomorrow morning as ‘Murderers’, you will call Mr. Henderson first. He’s neutral. He’s your friend. He’s the only mechanic you trust with your Jag. Let him look.”
Carolyn stared at me. She saw something in my eyes—a resolve she hadn’t seen before. A hardness. She realized, perhaps for the first time, that I wasn’t just Logan’s wife. I was a threat. And threats had to be assessed before they could be neutralized.
She pulled out her phone. Her hands were trembling slightly.
Mr. Henderson lived two streets over. He was the old-school type, a man who fixed cars with a wrench and instinct, not just a computer. He arrived in five minutes, wearing coveralls over his pajamas, carrying a heavy metal toolbox. He looked between the two women—one defiant, one terrified.
“What’s the problem, Mrs. Pierce?” he asked gently, sensing the tension.
“She claims… she claims the car is sabotaged,” Carolyn whispered, unable to look him in the eye. “She claims Logan did it.”
Henderson nodded. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t laugh. He jacked up the front of the SUV with efficient, practiced movements. He slid underneath on a creeper board, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness under the chassis.
The silence stretched. A dog barked in the distance. The wind rustled the dead leaves on the lawn. I wrapped my arms around myself, not from cold, but from the adrenaline crash.
“Well?” Carolyn asked, tapping her foot impatiently. “Tell her she’s crazy so we can go inside and I can call my son.”
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