Chapter 8: The Dinner Table

For once, Natalie didn’t use working late as an excuse to come home late. She walked in just as I was cooking in the kitchen.

Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor, echoing through the quiet house. The kitchen clock read 6:05 p.m.—the earliest she’d been home in months. The smell of sautéing garlic filled the air, mixing with the scent of cold December rain she brought in with her. The TV in the living room was still playing a rerun of Wheel of Fortune, the letters spinning silently as I stared at the soup.

“Derek, what are you making? It smells so good.”

Her voice was chipper, almost forced, as if she was rehearsing for a commercial. I caught a whiff of her perfume—overapplied, cloying. It was the first time in ages she’d greeted me with anything but a grunt.

She set her purse down too gently, like she was afraid of making noise. Her fingers fidgeted with the strap, eyes darting to the suitcase and then to me.

Taking the initiative to greet me—she never does that.

I nearly dropped the ladle. Natalie hated small talk. If she was buttering me up, something was seriously off. I felt my chest tighten, my mind racing to keep up with her new script.