My husband said good night after p0isoning my son and me with a plate of chicken in green sauce, picked up his phone and whispered, “It’s done… soon they’ll both be gone.” And I, lying on the floor, didn’t even dare to breathe.

The house smelled like comfort—cilantro, warm spices—but something rotten hid beneath it. Ethan moved calmly, almost too perfectly, like he was rehearsing a scene. He had arranged everything beautifully: clean linens, polished glasses, even the special napkins. For Ryan, he poured apple juice and smiled in a way that felt forced.