The Cleaning Lady Was Your Wife

I dragged my burned, battered body back from a cartel execution squad, disguising myself as a hired cleaner to enter my own New York penthouse.

Instead of a grieving family, I found my husband, my five-year-old son, and my best friend throwing a party to celebrate my assassination.

"We are celebrating because the bad lady is never coming back," my son chirped.

He had sold the sacred protection medallion I bought him to buy his father's mistress a diamond bracelet.

As I scrubbed the floors in secret, I listened to them laugh.