The black-and-white wide shot of my kitchen was perfectly clear.

The timestamp in the top right corner read 5:14 PM.

On the screen, my back was turned as I stood near the stove, stirring a pot of pasta.

Margaret walked into the frame, her face twisted with a familiar, ugly rage.

The audio was faint, but her sharp voice carried clearly through the phone’s speaker.

“You think you can keep his money from him?” Margaret shouted on the recording.

I watched the screen as my past self turned around, holding a wooden spoon.

Then, the Margaret on the screen grabbed the heavy cast-iron skillet from the rear burner.

She did not hesitate.

She flung the smoking, golden oil directly at my face and neck.

The phone’s speaker captured my high, agonizing scream.

Ethan did not move toward me.

On the video, he took a step back to avoid the splattering grease on his expensive leather shoes.

I fell to the linoleum, clutching my face, my body curling into a tight ball.

Ethan looked down at me, his expression entirely blank.