The house was unnervingly quiet when I came downstairs that evening. Not the kind of peaceful quiet you get when everything’s fine, but the brittle kind — the one that holds its breath before someone snaps.

Mary sat at the dining table, her posture flawless, her phone in one hand and a glass of white wine in the other. She didn’t even look up when I walked in. Her nails tapped against the glass with mechanical precision. Every click felt like a countdown to something I didn’t want to ...