The word dispatch hung in the muggy air, muffled by plastic and wet soil, but clear enough to freeze every soul on that porch.

I stepped backward until my spine hit the cold surface of the kitchen counter. My hand slid along the edge, feeling around until my fingers brushed against the handle of a heavy cast-iron skillet sitting on the stove.

“You’re sick, Evelyn,” I said, keeping my voice steady to buy time. “Marcus is your son, and you let him commit incest just to steal a piece of land?”

Marcus flinched, his face turning pale. He turned to his mother, his jaw trembling. “What is she talking about? What does she mean, incest?”

Evelyn didn't blink. Her gaze stayed fixed on me. “Shut your mouth, Marcus. She’s trying to manipulate you.”

“Is it true, Mother?” Marcus demanded, his hands shaking around the handle of his knife. “Is Arthur Vance my father?”

“I said shut up!” Evelyn snapped, her composure cracking for a split second as she turned the barrel toward Marcus. “It doesn't matter who your father was! What matters is that this land belongs to US!”

That moment of distraction was all I needed.

I grabbed the heavy cast-iron skillet and smashed it directly into Evelyn’s hand. The gun went off with a deafening blast, the bullet tearing into the ceiling as the revolver flew from her grip and slid across the linoleum floor.

At the exact same moment, a sharp, violent pain tore through my lower abdomen.