Breakfast with a Stranger

Elena's hand spasmed on the 'Stop' button. The waveform froze, a jagged red scar across the tablet screen.

*Force the issue.*

She ripped the headphones off, gasping as if the air in the small pantry had turned toxic. They were talking about murder. Not theft. Not fraud. They were talking about killing her son to accelerate a payday.

She shoved the tablet and headphones behind a bulk box of rice. She needed to get back to the kitchen. She needed to be the frantic mother, not the witness.

She stumbled out of the pantry just as the kitchen door swung open.

Diana—no, *Val*—walked in. She was wearing a silk kimono over flannel pajamas, her hair loose and glossy. She looked rested. She looked like a woman who hadn't been pacing in heavy boots three minutes ago.

"Good morning, sunshine," Val said, yawning and stretching like a cat. "I slept like the dead. How did you sleep?"

Elena gripped the edge of the island. "Fine. The storm kept me up."

Val moved to the coffee maker, her movements fluid and practiced. "Marcus said the phones are down. Scary, right? Being cut off."

"We'll manage," Elena said, her voice thin.

Val poured a mug of coffee and leaned against the counter, sipping it with her eyes closed. "I had the strangest dream last night. About Dad. Remember how he used to take us to the lake house? He tried to teach us to swim by throwing us off the dock."

Elena froze. The lie was so casual, so easily offered.

"The lake house," Elena repeated.

"Yeah. Lake George. You screamed so loud the neighbors called the cops." Val laughed, a tinkling, affectionate sound. "I had to drag you back to shore. You were shivering for hours."

Elena stared at her. At the perfect skin, the perfect hair, the perfect lie.

"We never went to Lake George," Elena said quietly.

Val’s smile faltered, just for a second. "Of course we did. That summer you turned ten."

"Dad had hydrophobia," Elena said, stepping closer. "He almost drowned when he was six. He wouldn't even drive over bridges if he could avoid it. He never took us swimming. Not once."

The silence in the kitchen stretched, heavy and suffocating.

Val took another sip of coffee, her eyes locking onto Elena’s over the rim of the mug. The warmth vanished from her face, replaced by something cold and assessing.

"Well," Val said, her voice devoid of the sisterly lilt. "Memories are funny things, aren't they, El? Maybe I'm remembering it wrong. Or maybe you are."

She set the mug down with a deliberate *clack*.

"Trauma does that," Val continued, her voice dropping lower, closer to the rasp on the recording. "It messes with your head. Makes you doubt what's real."

She leaned forward across the island.

"Maybe you should take one of those pills Marcus gave you. You look like you're about to snap."

Elena smiled. It was a terrible, brittle thing. "He was such a good swimmer," she lied.

Val blinked. The challenge confused her. Then, the mask slid back into place.

"The best," Val agreed enthusiastically. "Like a fish."