Empty Plates and Cold Truths
1363 Words
The news anchor’s voice hummed like a machine, detached and sterile, filling the hollow spaces of the kitchen.
“…another body discovered late last night. The fifth in just under six months.”
Dr. Ethan Hale stared at his plate without appetite. A pale slab of chicken rested in a pool of grayish sauce, next to vegetables that had surrendered their color long before they reached his fork. The microwave timer had beeped seven minutes ago, and he still tasted the plastic of the tray clinging to every bite.
Frozen dinner. Again.
He pushed a piece of broccoli around like it might magically grow flavor. This wasn’t food—it was survival, a performance of routine for an audience of no one.
On the screen, the camera cut to flashing blue lights and yellow tape flapping like warning flags in the wind. Crime scene. Reporters clustering like vultures. Then a man stepped into frame, tall, square-jawed, the kind of cop that looked ripped from a crime drama.
Detective Mark Bennett. The name stretched under his face in bold letters.
> “There is no cause for panic,” Bennett told the swarm of microphones, his tone firm, polished. “These incidents appear unrelated. We have no evidence of a serial offender at this time.”
Unrelated. Sure. Ethan let out a dry chuckle, one that tasted like bitterness. If five men turning up carved like Sunday roasts, blood painting hotel rooms, didn’t qualify as a pattern, then what the hell did?
The victim’s photo flashed on the screen: mid-forties, expensive suit, gold watch, smile frozen in a corporate headshot. Married, probably. Important, definitely.
Someone’s perfect target, Ethan thought.
The front door clicked open, dragging him back from the spiral. He didn’t move at first, just listened. The sharp tap of heels against hardwood cut through the low hum of the TV—a sound once familiar, now hollow.
“Don’t wait up,” Helen said, her voice floating in like perfume—pleasant enough until you caught the undertones. She stood in the doorway, framed like a painting: hair swept into a sleek twist, black dress clinging to curves she weaponized better than words, lipstick the color of arterial blood.
Ethan lifted his eyes, slow, deliberate.
“Going out?” he asked, though the answer was already obvious.
“With friends.” Her tone was casual, effortless, like the rest of her. She adjusted an earring in the reflection of the darkened window, avoiding his gaze like it was contagious.
His eyes flicked to the red smear of her lips, the shimmer of her perfume lingering like an accusation. Friends, right. He could almost hear Daniel’s laugh. Or Eric’s. Men from their circle who clapped him on the back at dinner parties and stole pieces of his wife with their eyes when they thought he wasn’t looking.
Helen reached for her clutch, nails clicking against the leather like a countdown.
“You should eat before it gets cold,” she added, nodding at his plate.
Ethan let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh.
“It was cold when I opened the package.”
Her brows twitched, just slightly, but she didn’t take the bait. She never did.
“You always were picky,” she murmured, swiping on a final layer of gloss in the hall mirror.
Picky? He stared at the limp vegetables on his plate, then at her flawless reflection. Maybe once upon a time, he cared enough to fight. Now? He barely cared enough to finish his sentence.
“Have fun,” he said instead, voice flat, dismissive. That was safer. Cleaner.
Helen blew him a kiss without looking, the gesture empty as the wine glass she left by the sink. Then the door shut behind her with a click that felt too final.
For a long moment, Ethan stared at the space she left behind, then down at his plate. Chicken congealed into something unrecognizable, vegetables sagging under their own weight. This isn’t dinner. It’s punishment for still breathing.
He scraped the food into the trash, the clatter loud in the silence, and reached for a glass of water. No wine tonight. Drinking alone made the walls feel closer, like judgment pressing in.
The TV kept talking, its voice a ghost in the room:
“…police urge citizens to remain calm as the investigation continues…”
---
“Dad?”
The voice yanked him from the fog. He turned to see two silhouettes framed in the doorway—mirror images in different outfits. Claire and Olivia. Sixteen and lethal with eyeliner. His daughters.
“We need money,” Olivia announced before he could speak, thumb dancing across her phone screen. She didn’t look at him, not really. He’d become a vending machine with a pulse.
“For what this time?” Ethan asked, leaning on the counter, glass in hand.
“Clothes,” Claire chimed in, her tone softer than her sister’s but just as entitled.
“And makeup,” Olivia added, like the word itself was holy.
Ethan stared at them, cataloging every perfect detail: glossy hair, flawless brows, manicures sharper than their tongues. His daughters—his patients in disguise. If anyone in this house needed therapy, it was them. Maybe he should start charging by the hour.
“You ever think about earning it yourselves?” he asked, voice casual, like he wasn’t tossing a grenade into the conversation.
They both froze, as if the concept was in another language.
“What?” Olivia blinked, like he’d suggested shoveling coal.
“Part-time job,” Ethan said, sipping his water. “Store, babysitting… builds character.”
They stared. Then laughed—high, cruel, synchronized.
“Character?” Olivia scoffed. “Seriously, Dad?”
“Yeah,” Claire smirked, sliding her phone into her bag. “That’s your thing. Not ours.”
His jaw flexed, but the words never came. They wouldn’t hear him anyway. Not when their worlds revolved around filters and followers, not reality.
“We’re going out,” Olivia announced, already halfway to the door.
“Don’t stay out too late,” he called.
“Sure,” came the dismissive echo.
“And homework?”
Claire waved a manicured hand without turning. “Whatever.”
The door slammed, and their laughter trailed into the night like perfume.
---
Silence again. Thick. Heavy. Ethan stared at the empty room, the crumbs of his failed dinner, the reflection of himself in the black screen of the TV when he finally turned it off. A man in his forties, tie loosened, hair graying at the temples, eyes lined with fatigue.
Once upon a time, he’d believed in structure. Marriage. Fatherhood. A home that felt like sanctuary.
Now? His house was a waiting room with better furniture.
He lowered himself into the chair, fingers steepled under his chin. The day replayed in fragments: hollow conversations, fake smiles, patients spinning drama from dust—and then her. The woman who stormed past Mrs. Collins with terror carved into her face.
My daughter will kill someone.
Her words hadn’t left his mind since the door shut behind her. They echoed now, curling into the corners of the room, louder than the silence, sharper than the clink of glass when he set it down.
He should have dismissed it. He should have called someone, passed it off to a crisis team, washed his hands clean. That was the protocol. The smart move.
Instead, Ethan reached for the scrap of paper in his pocket. Her handwriting glared up at him—elegant, desperate.
Vivienne Lancaster.
And a number.
His lips curved—not in amusement, but something darker. Curiosity. Hunger. For years, his patients had been predictable. Rich men whining about stress, influencers crying over bad lighting, wives blaming boredom on “trauma.” All of it noise.
But this? This was different. Raw. Dangerous. Real.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling as the decision settled like a storm cloud. He’d take the case. Not for the money. Not for the résumé.
For the first time in years, Ethan Hale wasn’t bored.
And that was the most dangerous feeling of all.
- Writer
