Brad was likely sleeping in his king-sized bed, perhaps nursing a sore shoulder from swinging the golf club too hard. Mrs. Gable was likely sipping tea from the very silver set that Emily had failed to polish, feeling righteous, feeling clean.

They weren’t at the police station. The police hadn’t found them yet; the officers were still taking statements, still “investigating.” The Gables had lawyers. They had connections. They would spin a story about a fall, or a carjacking, or a mental breakdown.

They were sleeping. While Emily was dying.

A snap echoed in the room. Margaret looked down. She had gripped the plastic arm of the hospital chair so hard she had broken it.

“I won’t let them live while you die,” she whispered to the rhythmic hissing of the ventilator.

She stood up. She didn’t kiss Emily’s forehead; she was done with tenderness. She needed to be something else now.

She walked out of the ICU, past the nurses’ station, past the weeping families. She walked out the automatic doors into the morning rain.

She got into her truck. She didn’t turn toward the police station. She didn’t turn toward her home. She drove to the construction site where she worked as a foreman. She unlocked the supply shed.

She took a heavy, five-gallon red canister of gasoline. She took a box of windproof matches. She grabbed a crowbar.