My breath hitched in the back of my throat as the paper rustled between my trembling fingers. The file folder labeled WIDOWS wasn’t just a collection of documents—it was a graveyard.

Sunday evening arrived with a storm brewing over Columbus. Rain lashed against the living room windows as the headlights of Amanda’s white Escalade swept across the driveway at 6:30 PM.

I was sitting in the dimly lit living room, pretending to read a trade magazine, wearing an unbuttoned work shirt to look like a tired, oblivious husband who had just gotten off a long shift.

The front door burst open. Laughter, loud and abrasive, filled the foyer.

"Ethan!" Amanda’s voice shrieked before she even took off her designer coat. "Where are you?! Get down here and grab these bags! The car is loaded and I expect this place to be spotless!"

Behind her walked her mother Sheila, clutching a high-end designer purse bought with my credit card, her sister Brooke, and fourteen-year-old Dylan, who was smirking while chewing gum.

"And make it quick, boy!" Sheila barked. "My feet are killing me!"

Then Amanda walked into the living room—and froze.

I was sitting on the armchair, calmly taking a sip of coffee.

"Marcus?" Amanda gasped, her face draining of color for a split second before she forced a bright, glowing smile onto her face. "Honey! What... what are you doing here? You weren’t supposed to be back from Arizona until Tuesday!"

"Contract wrapped up early," I said, my voice smooth, emotionless, perfectly measured. "I missed my family."

Amanda’s eyes darted nervously toward the hallway. She quickly shifted into her theatrical, affectionate persona, dropping her bags and rushing over to throw her arms around my neck. The smell of her expensive perfume made my stomach turn.

"Oh, sweetie, I’m so glad you’re home!" she gushed, kissing my cheek. "We had the most terrible time in Miami—it rained the whole week! We missed you so much!"

"Did you?" I asked, looking past her shoulder at Dylan, who was slouching near the door. "Where’s Ethan?"

Amanda’s smile faltered for a microsecond. "Oh, you know Ethan... he’s been in one of his moods lately. He locked himself in his room all weekend. We tried to get him to come with us to Miami, but he threw a terrible fit and refused to go! He said he hated us."

Lies. Pure, practiced poison.

"Is that so?" I said, standing up slow and tall.

At that moment, Ethan walked down the stairs. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, his head bowed, playing the role of the terrified, submissive child to perfection.

Dylan stepped forward, snickering under his breath as Ethan passed him, deliberately sticking his foot out to trip him. Ethan stumbled but caught himself.

"Watch where you’re going, loser," Dylan sneered.

Amanda didn't miss a beat. "Ethan, stop being so clumsy! Go put your cousin’s bags upstairs and apologize for ruining the mood!"

I watched it all unfold through the lens of the six hidden cameras currently recording every frame in high definition, transmitting directly to Mac’s surveillance van down the street.

"No," I said quietly.

The room went dead silent.