Sunday Dinner

"The one she had to buy."

Clara exhales slowly, forcing her hands to stop trembling before she reaches out to smooth Leo's messy hair. She bought him an identity. A name. A life. And now she owned him.

"Grandma has a strange sense of humor, Leo," Clara says, guiding him toward the door. "Go finish playing with Dad. We have to leave for Sunday dinner in an hour."

The mandatory Sunday dinner at Eleanor's estate. A weekly performance of gratitude and submission.

An hour later, they are seated around the massive, antique dining table in Eleanor's formal dining room. The room is aggressively opulent, filled with heavy silver and dark portraits of Vance ancestors. Marcus sits opposite Clara, swirling a snifter of scotch. David sits at the foot of the table, unusually quiet.

Eleanor presides at the head.

"The roast is a bit dry this week," Eleanor announces, cutting a microscopic piece. She directs her gaze to Clara. "Your new housekeeper, Clara. Is she working out?"

"She's fine, Eleanor," Clara says, keeping her eyes on her plate. "She's very thorough."

"Thoroughness is a virtue," Eleanor says. The ice in her glass clinks softly. "Speaking of thorough, how is your little digital project coming along? The spring cleaning?"

Marcus stops swirling his scotch. He glances at David.

"Finished," Clara lies smoothly, finally looking up. She meets Eleanor's icy blue eyes. "Everything is archived and safely stored. The old network drives are wiped clean."

"Wiped entirely?" Marcus asks. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Did you use the secure overwrite software I recommended?"

"Of course," Clara says. She takes a sip of water. "I wouldn't want any sensitive family data to be accidentally recovered."

David shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his knife scraping loudly against his china plate. "Can we talk about something else? The foundation meeting on Tuesday—"

"Oh, David, relax," Eleanor interrupts, waving a manicured hand. "Clara is a professional. She knows how to manage a database. It's just a shame she gave up such a promising career to... organize family photos."

The insult is standard issue, designed to keep Clara in her place. The invisible, provincial wife. Usually, Clara absorbs it, nodding politely to keep the peace.

Not today. Today, she has the shadow server. Today, she knows about Hillview.

"I don't mind it, Eleanor," Clara says, her voice ringing out clearly in the large room. "Family archives are fascinating. You’d be surprised what you find when you start organizing the past. History has a way of leaving traces, no matter how hard someone tries to delete them."

The dining room goes dead silent.

Marcus puts his glass down. The dull *thud* echoes against the wood paneling.

"For instance," Clara continues, turning her attention back to her plate, cutting a piece of the roast. "I was looking at some of the foundation’s older charitable contributions. Expanding juvenile centers. It's very noble work, Marcus."

David drops his fork. It clatters onto his plate.

Eleanor's fork paused. 'Dig too deep in the archive, Clara, and you might bury yourself.'