Dinner with Wolves

Not the girl who visited in 2010. The ink from Mrs. Gable’s note stained Elena’s fingertips, a smear of validation that felt like a lifeline. She stood by the mailbox, her lungs burning as the blizzard tried to bury her alive, and realized her neighbor wasn't just observant. She was a witness.

Elena shoved the note into the deep pocket of her parka and began the long, agonizing trek back up the drive. Every muscle screamed, but the adrenaline was a hot iron in her veins. She had to play the part. She had to be the broken wife returning from a moment of madness in the cold.

When she stepped into the mudroom, Marcus was waiting. He didn't have the duct tape, but his face was set in that terrifyingly neutral expression he used before firing a subordinate. He watched her shake the snow from her boots, his eyes tracking every movement.

"Air," he said, the word flat. "Feel better now?"

"A little," Elena lied, her voice raspy. "The house... it felt too small. After the window broke, I just needed to move."

"Val is resting," Marcus noted, stepping closer. He reached out and brushed a stray snowflake from Elena’s collar. His fingers lingered near her throat. "She’s quite shaken. It isn't easy, being screamed at by a woman she’s sacrificed so much to help."

Elena forced a nod, lowering her gaze. "I’ll apologize. Later. I should make dinner. We all need to eat."

The domestic frame was her only armor. If she was in the kitchen, she was useful. If she was useful, she was safe—for now. She spent the next hour moving like an automaton, chopping vegetables for a beef stew. The rhythmic *thwack* of the knife against the wood was the only thing keeping her from screaming.

Val joined them at the table an hour later. She had changed into a fresh sweater—a soft, cream-colored cashmere that screamed innocence. She looked pale, her eyes red-rimmed as if she had been crying. It was a masterful performance.

"Elena," Val whispered, reaching across the table. Her hand was steady, the tremors gone. "I know you're under so much pressure. I don't blame you for what happened. I really don't."

Elena managed a tight smile. She looked at Marcus, then back at the woman wearing her sister's face. They sat there like a perfect triad, the storm howling at the walls, the stew steaming between them. It was a dinner with wolves.

She watched them share a look—a quick, synchronized flash of understanding. They were so comfortable together. Too comfortable for a man and his sister-in-law.

"You know," Elena said, stirring her bowl but not eating. "I was thinking about Uncle Jerry today. Since the phones are down. He always loved a good crisis."

Marcus paused, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. Val didn't miss a beat. She gave a sad, wistful little sigh.

"Oh, poor Uncle Jerry," Val said, shaking her head. "He really was the life of the party, wasn't he? I still remember him teaching us how to make those balloon animals at my seventh birthday. He was so funny."

Elena felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the draft from the broken window. She took a slow sip of water, her eyes never leaving Val’s face.

"He really was," Elena said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The best."

There was no Uncle Jerry. Her father had been an only child, and her mother's brothers had died in a car accident before Elena was born.

"Uncle Jerry was so funny," Elena repeated, watching the lie settle into the room like poison. Diana laughed softly, a sound of genuine, shared memory. "He really was."