Dinner was a masterclass in psychological torture.
My mother-in-law, Evelyn, was her usual eccentric self, gossiping about the local country club politics, completely oblivious to the radioactive tension vibrating between her daughter and her son-in-law.
I couldn’t eat. Every time I looked across the roast chicken at Sarah, I felt a sickening sense of vertigo. She looked exactly like the woman I loved. She had the same slight asymmetry in her eyebrows, the same habit of tucking her dark hair behind her left ear when she spoke. But now, every gesture felt calculated. Every laugh sounded like a playback recording.
“David, darling, you haven’t touched your wine,” Evelyn remarked, peering at me through her reading glasses. “Are you feeling alright? You look a bit pale.”
“Just a headache, Evelyn. Long week at the firm,” I muttered, forcing a smile.
“He’s been working too hard,” Sarah chimed in smoothly, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand.
Her skin was ice-cold.
The touch sent a jolt of pure adrenaline straight down my spine. I tried not to pull away, but my muscles locked up. Her grip tightened just a fraction of a millimeter—not enough for Evelyn to notice, but enough to communicate a silent, terrifying dominance. Her eyes locked onto mine, holding my gaze with a predatory intensity that made the hair on my arms stand up.
“Why don’t you go lie down in the guest room, honey?” she suggested softly. “I’ll clean up with Mom, and then I’ll come check on you.”
Get out. Run. The trooper’s words echoed in my head.
“Yeah,” I croaked. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that.”
