The lake house seemed quieter after Sunday night, but it wasn’t a peaceful silence. It was the quiet of a predator watching from the shadows. Sierra felt it in every room, in every glance from her mother.
Vanessa had closed the box, but not the suspicion. She was waiting for them to stumble, waiting for a mistake she could catch in her hands like prey.
And Sierra could feel herself slipping closer and closer to giving her one.
Breakfast Tension
Monday morning was deceptively ordinary. Vanessa prepared pancakes, her movements graceful, her humming soft. But Sierra could feel her mother’s gaze lingering.
Damien sat at the head of the table, reading the paper. He looked unbothered, but Sierra could see the subtle way his jaw clenched.
“Would you pass the syrup, Sierra?” Vanessa asked.
