The scent of garlic and tomato sauce hangs in the air like a fog, thick enough to choke on. Or maybe that's just the tension. Emily's kitchen gleams under the lights, everything in its perfect place, while my world crumbles around me.
"Another glass, Danny?" Emily's voice floats across the kitchen island, deceptively light. She's already pouring before I can answer, the dark red liquid cascading into crystal that costs more than I used to make in a week.
I glance at Holly, who sits across from me, those wire-rimmed glasses catching the light as she studies me with clinical detachment. She's barely touched her wine, hasn't said more than three words since we sat down. The bathroom incident hovers between us like a ghost.
"I've already had three," I mumble, watching Emily's perfectly manicured hand slide the glass toward me. "I'm getting pretty drunk."
"Nonsense," Emily says, her smile not quite reaching those ice-blue eyes.
She moves behind me, her silver braid brushing against my shoulder as she leans down. Her lips graze my ear, but there's something else to the gesture that I can't read.
"Drink up, baby," she whispers, her fingers wrapping around mine, guiding the glass to my lips with gentle insistence.
I take a sip that turns into a gulp under her guidance. The wine is expensive, full-bodied, and tastes like ash in my mouth. Emily's hand lingers on mine, her touch simultaneously loving and possessive. When I meet her eyes, I see something lurking behind that perfect smile, something calculating and cold that makes my stomach clench.
For a moment, something flickers in Emily's eyes, a spark of intense love that makes my heart skip, but then it's gone, replaced by that distant coolness I've been seeing all evening. She straightens up, adjusting her silk blouse with precise movements.
"So, mother," Holly says, breaking her self-imposed silence, "what's tonight's big announcement? You've been mysteriously quiet about why we're having this 'family dinner.'"
Emily's smile tightens at the edges. "Let's eat first, shall we?" She turns toward the stove where the pot of spaghetti and meatballs has been simmering. "Good news tastes better with a full stomach."
I watch her move around the kitchen with practiced grace, ladling generous portions onto three ceramic plates. The pasta glistens with sauce, the meatballs perfectly round and evenly browned. Like everything else about Emily, her cooking is flawless.
"Dig in, you two," she says, placing plates in front of us. "I'll join you in a moment."
She disappears into the pantry, the sound of bottles clinking following her exit.
I'm drunk enough now that the idea of food actually seems appealing despite my churning anxiety. The first forkful of spaghetti slides past my lips, and the flavor explodes across my tongue, rich tomato, fresh basil, a hint of red wine in the sauce. It's perfect, like everything else Emily creates.
I don't say anything, though. Can't find the words through the alcohol haze and dread. Instead, I just keep eating, mechanical movements that give me something to focus on besides Holly's creepy stare or the hickey burning like a brand on my neck.
Holly twirls pasta around her fork with surgical precision, her eyes never leaving my face. "You look terrible, Daniel," she observes, her voice clinical and detached. "One might think you're not excited about mother's announcement."
"Leave him alone, Holly," Emily calls from the pantry. "He's just tired today."
I force a few more bites of spaghetti into my mouth, not really tasting it anymore despite how good it is. Holly methodically twirls her pasta, each movement precise. Her fork clinks softly against the ceramic plate, the only sound between us besides our chewing. She takes small, deliberate bites. Her eyes flick up to meet mine occasionally, cold and assessing.
After a few minutes of this suffocating silence, Emily finally emerges from the pantry and joins us at the table. Something's changed in her demeanor. The tightly wound spring I've been sensing all evening has somehow unwound. She sits down with a beautiful grace, arranging her silver braid over one shoulder, and I'm struck by how suddenly relaxed she seems.
"Holly," she says, her voice melodic and light, "I have wonderful news. Danny and I are getting married tomorrow."
Holly's fork pauses midway to her mouth. She carefully finishes chewing the bite she has, her jaw working methodically before she swallows. The movement of her throat looks exaggerated somehow, almost mechanical.
"I think that's a bad idea," she says flatly.
Before I can process her reaction, I notice something odd happening to Holly's face. Her eyes, usually sharp and calculating behind those glasses, begin to lose focus. She blinks slowly, once, twice, her eyelids growing heavier with each movement. A slight frown forms between her brows, confusion replacing the usual cold assessment in her expression.
Then, without warning, her head pitches forward and smacks against the table with a dull thud that makes the silverware jump.
I stare at her crumpled form, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over me. Through the fog of alcohol clouding my brain, a memory surfaces, Holly drugging Emily and me, that night that started this whole nightmare. The room starts to tilt slightly, and I realize with startling clarity that the heaviness in my limbs isn't just from the wine.
"You drugged the spaghetti?" I ask, my voice coming out surprisingly calm. I feel oddly detached, like I'm watching this scene unfold from somewhere far away. I know I should be panicking, but there's a strange sense of peace to it all, like all the lies finally can end tonight.
I take another bite of the pasta, accepting whatever fate awaits me.
Emily's smile is serene as she reaches across the table and strokes my cheek with tender fingers. "Yes, baby," she confirms softly.
The room begins to swim around me, colors bleeding into each other like watercolors in rain. My fingers lose their grip, and the fork tumbles from my hand, clattering against the ceramic plate with a sound that echoes strangely in my ears.
"Oh, Danny," Emily murmurs, her voice floating to me as if through water.
I try to speak, but my tongue feels too big for my mouth. My head lolls forward, too heavy to hold up anymore. I'm vaguely aware of Emily rising from her seat, moving around the table with that fluid grace that first captivated me.
Her cool hands cradle my face, tilting my head back so I can see her. The silver of her braid shimmers in my fading vision. Her blue eyes, usually so warm when they look at me, now hold something else, not cruelty, but a detached curiosity that reminds me of Holly.
"You won't remember any of this when you wake up, Danny. I plan on getting to the bottom of this," Emily says softly, her thumb stroking my cheek. "So this is your chance to be completely honest with me."
I try to nod, but my head just rolls in her hands. The room keeps tilting, the ceiling and floor trading places in slow motion.
"Are you fucking with my daughter?"
There's no accusation in her voice, no anger or betrayal, just a simple question. Like she already knows the answer but needs to hear me say it.
I summon the last of my strength to give her a single, deliberate nod.
Emily's face doesn't change. No flash of pain, no tightening of her lips. If anything, her expression softens further, her eyes filling with something that might be pity.
"Black...mail," I manage to whisper, the word slurring and fragmented as it falls from my numb lips.
The last thing I see before darkness claims me is Emily's face, beautiful and serene in the warm kitchen light, her eyes filled with a strange mixture of sadness and resolve.
"I believe you, Baby"
Then nothing.