I caught my mother-in-law slashing my tires at 2 a.m. to kill me in the mountains, but my cheating husband snatched my keys before I could stop him.

The scent of burnt rubber and pulverized pine needles reached us before the flashing red and blue lights did.

The highway patrol had already thrown down flares across the narrow two-lane asphalt of Route 9. Thick plumes of steam rose into the mountain drizzle from a jagged scar torn into the hillside. Half of the guardrail hung twisted like melted silver licorice over a three-hundred-foot ravine.

Judith let out an animal howl, clawing at her own face as she threw her door open before the Lexus had even fully stopped.

"Grant! My baby! Grant!"

"Stay in the vehicle!" an officer screamed, his hand instantly dropping to his sidearm as Judith charged through the flares. "Ma'am! Do not cross the perimeter!"

I stepped out into the rain, my boots sinking into the wet mud. The chill went through my wool sweater instantly, but I felt entirely numb. I walked past the screaming deputy, showing him my hands, my voice level and icy.

"I’m Clara Montgomery. I’m the registered owner of the Mercedes and the one who called in the sabotage warning. Where is my vehicle?"

The senior trooper, his slicker dripping with water, pointed down into the tree line fifty feet below the fractured road.

My silver SUV hadn't tumbled to the bottom of the gorge. A massive, centuries-old white oak had caught the chassis mid-roll, crushing the driver’s side roof down like an aluminum can, but preventing the vehicle from freefalling into the river below.

Through the shattered rear panoramic glass, I saw movement.

"We have two adults conscious, one child stabilized," the rescue commander shouted over a radio strapped to his chest. "Jaws of Life are on the frame now! Fuel tank is intact, but the battery pack is sparking! We need foam on the undercarriage right now!"

Down in the wreckage, Tessa Langford was being pulled through the blown-out passenger window by two paramedics. Her designer sweater was ripped to shreds, blood smearing her pale face, her platinum hair matted with shattered safety glass. In her arms, she shrieked hysterically, clutching her seven-year-old daughter, Lily, who was crying out for her teddy bear.

And then I saw Grant.

He was pinned behind the crushed steering column. His head was slumped sideways against the deployed curtain airbag, blood running from a deep gash along his temple. But he was alive. His eyes were fluttering open, glassy and unfocused.

As the paramedics hauled Tessa up the embankment on a rescue backboard, her eyes locked onto Judith standing behind the yellow tape.

"You stupid old bitch!" Tessa screamed, her voice shrill, tearing through the quiet mountain air like a siren. "You said you did the front right tire! You said she’d slide into the ditch outside her office! Why was it the rear tire?! Why was it the rear?!"

Every police officer on that ridge froze.