Lena

Dinner was served at seven.

I sat at one end of the table. Julian sat at the other. Between us stretched twelve feet of polished mahogany and silence so thick it had weight.

Mrs. Billy had outdone herself. Herb-crusted salmon, roasted vegetables, some kind of potato thing that probably had a French name. The kind of meal that belonged in a magazine spread about elegant living.

I pushed food around my plate and didn't taste any of it.

Julian cut his salmon into precise squares and ate mechanically, like he was checking a box on a task list. Consume nutrients. Maintain appearance of normalcy.

Neither of us spoke.

The...