The Voice Memo in the Milk House

My husband shoved open the milk-house door and caught his sister pinning me to the wet concrete, a veterinary syringe an inch from my shoulder.

Priss was screaming that I'd gone for the pills, but my mother-in-law Alma was already half-sedated upstairs, and the lockbox I was curled around held twelve days of missing doses. Dean didn't ask if I was hurt. He asked where my phone was.

"She went for the pills-I stopped her!" Priss lied.

Dean grabbed her wrist. "Step away from her." Then, quieter: "You know why."

I didn't understand that until later. What I understood in that moment was that my right hand was still under my hip, and the voice memo I'd started at 4:31 was still running. Priss saw the screen before Dean did. Her face went white, and Dean was still holding her wrist, still not looking down.

The notary is due in an hour. Alma is barely breathing. If Priss gets that phone, the forged POA goes through and the farm-and Emmie's home-is gone by morning.