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The afternoon sun filtered through the gauzy curtains of the living room, casting long, golden bars of light across the freshly vacuumed carpet. A scent of lemon-scented polish still lingered in the air, clashing faintly with the earthy smell wafting in from the vegetable garden out back, where Douglas had left his muddy boots by the backdoor again—of course. Renee sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, spine rigid, one leg crossed over the other with perfect posture. In her lap, a half-full mug of lukewarm chamomile tea trembled slightly in her hands. Her fingers tapped against the ceramic, rhythmically, anxiously, but not fast enough to admit to herself that she was nervous. Weeks had passed. Weeks. Weeks of Andrew and Ashley just... living in her house. Like nothing had happened. No confrontation. No accusations. No emotional outbursts. Not even the passive-aggressive venom she used to expect from Ashley like clockwork. No, Ashley was eerily civil now. Standoffish, yes, but restrained. Tolerant. Almost like she was trying. And Andrew? He was... well. Still Andrew. Thoughtful, quiet, too polite. Too forgiving. They weren’t even sleeping in the same room anymore, thank God. That nightmare had dissolved without explanation. Renee's knuckles whitened around her mug. It didn’t make any damn sense. They should be screaming. Demanding answers. Threatening her and Douglas for what they did—for what they planned to do. She had been so sure. They must’ve known. They had to know. The forged death certificates. The cashing out of their policies. The dismemberment paperwork. All of it. But no. They just showed up on the front step one day, half-starved, oddly calm, and said they were “ready to come home.” Home. What a joke. Douglas didn’t question it much. He never did. As long as the police weren’t at the door and the lawn stayed neat, he could ignore just about anything. He was too content digging up carrots and pretending this whole thing wasn’t a slow-motion car crash. But Renee couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night since they arrived. Her dreams were tangled messes of hospital corridors and freezer drawers and eyes—Ashley’s, mostly—burning holes into her soul. If she had one left. She tried to spy on them. Listened at doors. Monitored their movements. Read facial expressions like she was decoding Morse code. Nothing. Just breakfast, chores, the occasional laughter between the two of them. Laughter. As if either of them had anything to laugh about. So yes, she was losing her mind. And now this. Now this. They had a friend. A friend. Someone they had invited over. No warning. No proper vetting. No chance for Renee to prepare a script of excuses in case this “friend” started asking too many questions. The kind that might land her and Douglas in court or worse. The doorbell rang. She nearly spilled her tea. Renee set the mug down on the glass coffee table with a clink and stood up with the grace of someone trained to host under duress. She smoothed the front of her blouse, adjusted her necklace, and plastered on a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her heels clicked softly against the tile floor as she crossed to the front door. Her hand hovered over the doorknob for just a second too long. Get a grip, she told herself. You’re still in control. They’re under your roof. You hold the cards. Still, her fingers tightened on the handle. Click. She opened the door, and there they were—just as Andrew had said. The friend. Renee’s eyes flicked over the visitor quickly: clothes, shoes, stance, posture. Friendly. Normal. Too normal? That smile remained on her lips like stage makeup, rehearsed and hollow. “Ah,” she said coolly, stepping aside. “You must be the friend they mentioned. Come in.” Her voice was honey over ice. Polite, practiced, not particularly warm. She didn’t move her eyes off them, not even for a moment.

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