Chapter 6: Dinner with the Sister

I circled "Zoning Board" on the calendar until the paper tore. The red ink bled onto the white refrigerator door, a jagged wound in the sterile kitchen. I wiped it away with my thumb, leaving a faint pink smear.

I needed to act normal. Tonight was the family dinner.

The dining room table was set for five. Me, Richard, Eleanor, the twins, and Catherine.

Catherine.

I had seen her a hundred times. A thousand. She lived in the guest house across the courtyard, a permanent shadow in our periphery. Richard called her "fragile." Eleanor called her "the poor dear." The narrative was simple: Catherine Vane was Richard’s younger sister, an artist who had a breakdown in her twenties and never recovered. She painted abstract nightmares in the attic and rarely spoke.

I walked into the dining room, smoothing my skirt. The chandelier was already lit, casting a warm, deceptive glow over the mahogany table.

Eleanor was already there, her wheelchair parked at the head of the table. She was wearing pearls and a silk blouse that cost more than my first car.

"You're late, Elena," she said without looking up from her tablet.

"I was helping the twins with their homework," I lied. I had been in the bathroom, hyperventilating into a towel.

Richard entered from the hallway, pushing Catherine’s wheelchair. He parked her next to me.

I looked at her. Really looked at her.

Catherine was thin, almost gaunt. Her hair was a dull brown, pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a high-necked dress that looked like it belonged in a different century. Her eyes were vacant, fixed on the centerpiece of white lilies.

*This woman is my husband’s wife?*

The thought was so grotesque I almost laughed.

"How are you feeling tonight, Cat?" Richard asked, his voice tender. He placed a napkin in her lap.

Catherine didn't answer. She just stared at the flowers.

"She had a bad afternoon," Eleanor said, finally putting down her tablet. "The nurse said she was agitated. Seeing things again."

"Poor thing," Richard murmured. He poured water into Catherine’s crystal goblet. "We should adjust her meds."

"I'll handle it," Eleanor said sharply.

Dinner was served by the new maid, a quiet girl who kept her eyes on the floor. Roast chicken. Asparagus. The clinking of silverware was the only sound for minutes.

I watched Richard. He was eating with gusto, telling a story about the Zoning Board meeting. He was animated, charming, the perfect family man.

Then he turned to Catherine.

"You're not eating, Cat," he said softly.

He picked up her knife and fork. He began to cut her chicken into small, bite-sized pieces. It was something he did often, a gesture I had always interpreted as brotherly devotion.

But tonight, through the lens of the SSA file, it looked different.

It looked possessive.

He placed the fork in her hand, guiding her fingers around the silver handle.

"Eat," he whispered.

Catherine looked up at him. For a split second, the vacancy in her eyes cleared. A flash of something sharp—fear? recognition?—sparked in her gaze. She looked from Richard to me.

"Paris," she said.

The word dropped into the silence like a stone in a pond.

Richard froze. Eleanor’s fork clattered onto her plate.

"What did you say, dear?" Eleanor asked, her voice dangerously sweet.

"Paris," Catherine repeated, her voice stronger. "We went to Paris. For the... for the..."

"You're confused, Catherine," Richard said quickly, his hand tightening over hers. "You've never been to Paris."

"Yes," she insisted, a tremor entering her voice. "The bridge. The lock. You said..."

"That's enough," Eleanor commanded. "She's having an episode. Richard, take her back to the guest house."

"No," Catherine said. She tried to pull her hand away, but Richard held on.

"It's okay, Cat," he soothed, but his knuckles were white. "Let's go get your medicine."

He stood up, towering over her. He leaned down, his face close to hers, blocking her view of me.

"We don't talk about Paris," he hissed.

It was barely audible. But I heard it.

He straightened up, his mask of concern sliding back into place. "I'll be right back, everyone. Sorry about this."

He wheeled her away.

I watched them go. As they passed the sideboard, Richard paused to adjust the blanket on her lap. His hand brushed her thigh, then moved to squeeze her hand.

It wasn't a brother's touch. It was intimate. Familiar. It was the touch of a man calming a woman he knew in the dark.

He wheeled her out of the room.

Eleanor sighed, picking up her wine glass. "Tragic," she said, taking a sip. "Simply tragic what the mind can invent."

I looked at the empty doorway. My heart was pounding so hard I felt sick.

Paris. The lock.

I looked down at my own hand, at the diamond ring Richard had given me. He had proposed in Paris. On the Pont des Arts bridge. We had attached a lock.

*We don't talk about Paris.*

Because he had been there before. With her.