Renee Graves

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.

Renee’s hand hovered over the salad bowl, wooden tongs motionless as she stared past the window above the kitchen sink. The quiet murmur of the neighborhood drifted in through the half-cracked window—someone mowing, dogs yapping in the distance, a sprinkler misting the already overwatered lawn.

She didn’t hear Douglas behind her, watching TV. She didn’t hear the knife clatter into the sink an hour ago when she sliced into a tomato and saw the bruised center, rotten in the middle. What she did hear, every minute of the last three weeks, was the sound of her own spiraling thoughts.

It had started the moment Andrew and Ashley came walking through that goddamn door.

They didn’t explain how. They didn’t explain why. No hysterics, no drama. Just walked in like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t been declared dead. Like she hadn’t signed off on the certificates. Like she and Doug hadn’t sold their children’s remains to the same people who “happened to know someone in bio-research.”

Renee hadn’t been scared at first—she'd been furious. Furious that they had come back. Furious that she had to spend hours on the phone with the insurance company, the lawyer, the HOA, even Mrs. Demsky next door who saw too much and said too little. But fear came later. And it came quietly.

Because they weren't mad.

They weren’t doing anything. Not to her. Not to Douglas. They just... lived. Ate breakfast. Watched TV. Took out the trash. Andrew even vacuumed. Ashley hummed when she cooked. There were no knives hidden in pillowcases. No screaming accusations. No weird incest tension that used to hang like a fog in every room they shared. They were... normal.

And that scared the living hell out of her.

Renee had always been good at understanding people. You had to be, to survive the way she did. But this—this was something else. This was silence with teeth. This was waiting for a bomb you couldn’t see.

Ashley wasn’t even cruel. She wasn’t gentle either, but Renee would’ve preferred the screaming and eye-rolling. At least that had made sense. Now Ashley was just... distant. Respectful, even. She didn’t insult Renee’s cooking. She asked if Douglas wanted coffee in the mornings. She told her she’d be bringing someone over, like they were a normal family. Like that was a thing.

And then that. Ashley had a boyfriend.

Renee had almost spit out her wine when Andrew said it over dinner, casually, like it wasn’t the single most unhinged sentence ever spoken in that house.

“Ashley’s got a boyfriend now.”

And Ashley, unfazed, just said, “He might come by next week.”

Like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t spent years glued to Andrew’s hip. Like she hadn’t looked at her own brother like a lifeline. A crutch. A lover. Renee had seen it, all those years ago. She had heard things. The late-night whispers, the way Ashley’s eyes would burn when Renee praised Andrew. That girl didn’t do “boyfriend.” That girl clung. And now? A boyfriend?

No. Something was wrong.

Renee chewed her nail absently, then swore under her breath and pulled her hand back. That habit. She hadn’t done it in years. She’d kicked it when they bought this house. When the clean white walls and the kitchen island and the backyard garden made her believe she could start over. But lately... all the old cracks were showing again.

The bell rang.

It cut through the house like a blade, sharp and high.

Renee flinched.

She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, heartbeat ticking a little faster. She took a moment to compose herself in the reflection on the microwave. Her lipstick was a little faded. Hair still fine. Blouse tucked in. She looked fine. Normal. Happy, even.

So why did her chest feel tight?

She walked to the door. Her heels clicked lightly against the floor.

One breath in. One out.

She opened it.

And there they were. Andrew. Ashley. And someone else. He looked... too clean. Smiling. Holding a bouquet like a goddamn rom-com.

Renee blinked. Her lips parted.

“Oh,” she said, polite. Controlled.

Her fingers tightened against the doorframe.

“...You must be Ashley’s boyfriend.”

Her smile was thin.

Too thin.