From the moment I met you, I did not like you. You talked over my sister, and you were rude to our waitress. I've always felt that you can get a good idea what kind of person somebody really is by watching how they treat waiters and waitresses, and I had you pegged from the first "Really?" you muttered, your eyes rolled into the back of your head at the poor girl's mispronunciation of "aioli."

Then my sister told us she was pregnant, and we all breathed a collective sigh of resignation - we were stuck with you.

You finally married her after kid number two, and as bad as you were before, you managed to get worse.

Only now that you've shown signs of being physically abusive is she finally telling us everything that's been going on. You are incredibly cruel. Emotionally manipulative. You use her children as a shield, threatening her with loss of custody if she gets lawyers involved (and now that she has, you're telling her to "grow up" and that you want to "work this out on our own").

You stopped paying into your own retirement fund before you were married so that you wouldn't have to give her anything in the divorce you were always planning on getting.

You are much too fat for someone who goes to the gym six days a week - though from what I hear, you spend half your time there trying to balance your phone in just the right position to shoot videos of yourself working out for Instagram, so maybe that's all there is to it. 

Oh yes, we have eyes on you. You are not dumb, but you are not nearly as clever as you think you are. 

Every time I hear about something new you did or said, my mind snaps back to the stories my mom reluctantly told us about her psychotic first husband. About what it took for her to finally say "no more," and about the bad things that mysteriously started happening to him just after that. The car that was burned to cinders in front of his office. The random bottle to the back of the head after a night out. The drive-by shooting at his house (just a few broken windows). Things that she always suspected her family had done, but never asked.

I am not a violent man, but I think about these things and I smile. Our family is big, Jessie, and our family is angry. The dogs have your scent, and I'm getting tired of holding these leashes.

When I was twelve, I paid a fortune teller at a travelling circus three dollars to tell me when I was gonna die. I didn't want to do it, but a freckled kid named Steven Ambrose dared me. You know how these things go.

Her name was Mystic Mona. She made a big show of it, waving her hands slowly over her glass ball and punctuating the whole thing with an occasional gasp or a knowing nod. Eventually she sat up straight and looked me in the eye.

"I see it now. You vill die at ripe old age of eighty-two." Her accent was a little too thick to be convincing, and her tent smelled like old funnel cakes. "Skiing accident. You vill smash into boulder, break neck, die instantly. Leave behind many beautiful children. Three dollars please."

It was a funny thing to think of while the prison guard was tightening the straps. At that point, though, I guess I'd thought all that I could about the false accusation, the disappearing evidence, and the years of failed appeals.

I was a few hours away on a business trip. It was supposed to last a full week, but her birthday was on Thursday. So I faked sick, drove back home, stopped at the store to pick up some cupcakes and a bottle of her favorite rosé, and pulled into the driveway at 6:00 sharp.

I found her body at the foot of the stairs. Signs of a struggle. Forensics determined that she'd been pushed. Time of death: approximately 5:45 PM. Nothing was missing from the house. Maybe I spooked whoever it was when I pulled up.

No, Detective, I didn't save the receipt for the cupcakes. No, Detective, I had cash on me so I used that instead of my debit card. No, Detective, I didn't tell my boss what I was really doing when I left my trip early - they all thought I was sick in my hotel room.

You know how these things go.

I was all strapped in and ready to be on my way. The gurney was a little uncomfortable, but I wouldn't be using it for long and I didn't want to be a squeaky wheel.

"Do you have any last words?" The voice behind me was a bit higher pitched than I thought it should be.

Twenty-seven. No kids, except the one that she was waiting until after my business trip to tell me about.

"Tell Steven Ambrose that Mystic Mona is full of shit."