The kitchen grew so quiet that the dripping of the turkey fat into the roasting pan sounded like a ticking clock.
David smirked, leaning his hip against the counter where my blood was beginning to stain the hem of my apron. He held his phone out like a trophy, confident that the voice on the other end belonged to a ghost, an old man from a broken past I had lied about to save face.
“Who is this?” David asked, his tone dripping with the condescending arrogance he usually reserved for junior associates. “This is David Vance. I’m Anna’s husband. She’s having a bit of a… hysterical episode at dinner, and she insisted I call you. Though I must say, old man, your greeting is a little dramatic, isn’t it?”
There was a three-second pause on the line. A heavy, suffocating silence. When the voice spoke again, the smooth, casual mockery on David’s face didn’t just fade—it froze.
