I had just gotten home from the hospital with a shattered femur when my mother-in-law kicked my crutches out from under me. I hi:t the hardwood floor screaming in agony, only for my husband to grab me by the throat and whisper, “Mom wants the master bedroom, so you’re sleeping in the garage.”

Above me, laughter rolled through the ceiling. Vivian’s voice drifted down through the vent, saying I would learn gratitude by morning. Daniel asked what would happen if I told someone, and Vivian laughed about my “imaginary phone.” Then she said that by tomorrow, they would make me sign the house papers because pain made people cooperative.

My blood turned colder than the floor. House papers. So that was the rest of the plan. They had not simply snapped tonight. They had planned it.

“Mara?” the dispatcher said.

“I’m here,” I replied, my voice suddenly steady. “Please record this call.”

“It is being recorded.”

“Good.”

I held the phone near the vent as Vivian continued, smug and bright. She said once the master deed was transferred, they would move me to some awful rehab place outside town. Then she told Daniel to stop looking guilty because he deserved a wife who helped the family. Daniel muttered that I had found things—his company files, taxes, vendor accounts. Vivian laughed and called me a limping little mouse who could barely reach a toilet.