“…the last one who tried to leave,” she whispered, her breath smelling faintly of peppermint and expensive Shiraz.
I almost dropped the china. The heavy, gold-rimmed plates rattled against each other, a sharp porcelain dissonance in the sudden, suffocating quiet of the kitchen.
Lorraine simply reached out, her perfectly manicured fingers steadying the stack in my trembling hands. “Careful, dear,” she murmured, turning her attention back to the marble countertop with a damp cloth. “That set has been in the family for three generations. It would be a tragedy to break it. We absolutely despise having to replace things.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly like sandpaper. Over the low hum of the dishwasher, I could hear the faint, rumbling laughter of her son—my husband of six months, Arthur—coming from the living room. Just moments ago, it had been a comforting sound. Now, it sounded like a heavy deadbolt clicking shut.
“Lorraine,” I started, trying to force a nervous chuckle, hoping it was an awful, twisted mother-in-law joke. “What do you mean?”
She stopped wiping the counter and looked at me. Her eyes were dead and dark, like polished onyx. “I mean exactly what I said, Evelyn. Arthur is a creature of habit. He likes his home quiet, his meals punctual, and his companions… compliant. Melissa,” she paused, tasting the name as if it were a spoiled grape, “was terribly loud. Always arguing. Always packing a suitcase she never quite managed to carry out the front door.”
My mind raced. Melissa. The first wife. Arthur had told me she moved to Paris to pursue painting, that they had amicably parted ways because she felt suffocated by the dreary, isolated weather of the estate. I had even seen her Instagram—though, now that I thought about it, the posts over the last three years had been nothing but scenic landscapes and old architecture. No faces. No live videos.
“She moved to France,” I whispered, stepping back and hastily putting the plates down on the kitchen island before my hands gave out completely.
Lorraine laughed, a soft, dry, papery sound. “France? Oh, sweetheart. The soil in the greenhouse is imported from France. Perhaps that’s what Arthur meant.”
The blood drained from my face. I looked past her, out the large bay windows overlooking the sprawling, moonlit backyard. The greenhouse sat at the very edge of the property, a massive, gothic glass structure where Arthur spent hours tending to his prized, violently red orchids. He was fiercely protective of it. He was the only one with a key.
“You’re joking,” I gasped, pressing my spine flat against the refrigerator door. “You’re just trying to scare me.”
“I am trying to save us all a great deal of manual labor,” Lorraine corrected gently, folding the damp dish towel into a precise, perfect square. She walked over to me, reaching up to lovingly tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. Her fingertips were ice-cold.
“You are an excellent cook, Evelyn. You keep the house immaculate, and Arthur hasn’t smiled this much in years. You fit perfectly into this family.” She stepped back, beaming with that same warm, terrifying smile.
“Just keep doing a good job,” she said cheerfully, turning to leave the kitchen. She paused at the arched doorway, looking back over her shoulder. “Oh, and Evelyn? Remind Arthur to buy more bone meal tomorrow. The orchids are looking terribly famished.”
