The Grandmother By Jane E. James

I might be a grandmother. But I’m not some sweet, harmless old lady who people can push around.

Two little girls stand with their heads bowed in my living room. I’m told they’re my granddaughters. Daisy is nine, and Alice seven. Daisy is the spitting image of her mother. This is the first time I’ve met them since my daughter and I fell out after she married that waste of space, Vince.

They’ve come to live with me because their mother — my daughter — was murdered. In her own home while they slept close by.

I think Vince killed her. But the police can’t prove it. I’ve always known he was no good. He treated my daughter like dirt. I said he’d cheat on her — but she wouldn’t listen.

Now he wants his daughters back.

Over my dead body.

I finally have a family of my own. And nobody is going to take it away from me.