I called my husband 31 times from the ER as his mother lay dying. On the 31st ring, his mistress answered. “He’s in the shower. We’re in Maui. Stop calling, old wife,” she laughed over the sound of ocean waves. He had fabricated a business trip so he could abandon us. My dying mother-in-law heard every cruel word. Fury blazed in her eyes. With the last breath she had left, she slipped a hidden silver key into my hand and silently mouthed two words: “Destroy him.” Then the heart monitor flatlined

“I decline.”

Richard’s face contorted into absolute fury. “What did you say? You think a murderer gets to negotiate?”

“You are welcome to dial 911,” Mr. Harrison interjected, his tone dropping the temperature in the room by ten degrees. “However, Margaret’s autopsy confirms natural causes. Your threats of litigation are frivolous extortion.”

“Extortion?” Mark screamed, leaping to his feet, spit flying from his lips. “I am the eldest son! That money is mine! You are nothing but a gold-digging maid!”

I slowly opened my purse. I didn’t pull out the ledger. I pulled out a small, black remote control and aimed it at the television mounted on the wall—the one connected to my hidden smart-home system.

“Before you construct a fantasy where you are the victims,” I commanded softly, my voice echoing clinically off the walls, “I suggest you listen to your own history.”

I pressed play.