When my son sl:apped me for interrupting his video game, I just lowered my head and walked to the kitchen. I spent three hours baking his favorite triple-chocolate cake

closer to the kitchen island, sweet synthetic perfume surrounding her like fake confidence.

“Evan says you’re changing your will,” she said casually.

There it was.

The tiny knife hidden beneath silk.

I poured batter into another cake pan. “He talks about my will?”

“He worries about you. You’re alone. Forgetful. Emotional.” She tapped her long red nail against continue reading …