Four hours to prove she's not crazy—or die trying.
You find the note in the printer tray. Your words. Your voice. Your suicide letter—dated four hours from now.
It describes a relapse that never happened. Apologizes to neighbors for scenes you never caused. References vodka bottles you've never touched, now staged in the liquor cabinet like props in a play you didn't know you were performing.
Your husband calls from work. His voice is warm. Concerned. Practiced.
Did you read it?
Every door is locked from the outside. Your phone has no signal. Your tires are slashed. The neighbors have watched you "spiral" for months. The police have already been warned about the unstable wife who might do something desperate.
You scream for help. No one comes.
Because he's spent eighteen months building this moment. The paper trail. The witnesses. The perfect story of a tragic woman who finally broke. And at 8:00 PM, that story ends exactly the way he wrote it.
Unless you find a way out of a house that's become a cage, in a neighborhood that's been turned against you, before the clock runs out.
A white-knuckle domestic thriller novella about gaslighting, survival, and one woman's fight to outlive the death her husband planned for her.
