Introduction

The air in the room was stale, thick with the smell of antiseptic and despair.

They told me I was sick, that grief had broken my mind.

My mother-in-law, Martha, would visit, her concern a chilling mask, whispering to doctors how I was hallucinating, a danger to myself and my son, Billy.

"She doesn' t understand that David is gone," she' d insist, loud enough for me to hear.

But the real horror wasn't my madness; it was the truth.

Three days after my husband, David, a decorated police officer, was supposedly killed, I stood at his memorial, expected to mourn.

The man in the casket wasn't David.

It was Mark, his identical twin, missing the faded scar David always had.

That night, I found David, not dead, but alive in our summer cabin, with his childhood sweetheart, Emily Peterson.

He confessed it all with chilling indifference: Mark was killed in a shootout, and David seized the chance for a new life, free from me and Billy.

"I never loved you," he said, as if explaining a simple math problem. "It was always Emily."

I tried to tell everyone-his mother, his captain-but they looked at me with pity, already conditioned by Martha and David' s lies.

They had me committed to a white room, and David married Emily.

My four-year-old son, Billy, was left in their care, crying for me every night.

Then came the unbearable news: Billy was dead, a "tragic accident" from an overdose of cough medicine.

My world shattered.

Desperate, I fashioned a noose, remembering Billy' s bright laugh, the life David had stolen.

My only regret was that David would never face justice.

I kicked the chair away.

Darkness took me.

Then, a blinding light, and I was back on my living room couch, the day David was supposedly killed.

I wasn' t dead. I was back.

Martha' s face, a mask of practiced sadness, now held a triumphant curl.

I heard David' s voice from the hallway, "Is she stable?"

"She' s fragile, but she bought it," Martha replied. "She' ll break, just like we planned. We' ll have her committed, and Billy will be ours."

"Good," David said. "Make sure she doesn' t get near the body. Mark didn' t have my scar."

This time, I was not the grieving widow.

I was the executioner.