That's when the kitchen smells hit me. Garlic sizzling in oil. Tomato sauce, rich and acidic. The low murmur of voices. My stomach clenched painfully, a hollow ache that reminded me I'd been ignoring its signals for days. Saliva flooded my mouth, my body's automatic response to the promise of food, even as my mind rebelled against the idea of sitting at a table with these women, pretending at normalcy while Mark's body was still warm in the ground.
Kara sat at the kitchen table, a black spiral notebook open in front of her. Her pen moved across the page in quick, efficient strokes. Security logs, probably. Or maybe patrol schedules. She looked up when we entered, her eyes scanning me from head to toe like I was a building with structural damage. She didn't comment on what she saw, just nodded once and returned to her writing.
Cam stood at the stove with her back to us, broad shoulders shifting beneath her fitted black t-shirt as she worked. The sizzle of breaded chicken hitting hot oil filled the kitchen. She glanced over her shoulder, her dark eyes meeting mine for the briefest moment before turning back to the pan. The motion was economical, almost military in its precision.
Ellie guided me toward a chair, her hand steady on my arm until I was seated. She released me then, moving around the kitchen with the same quiet efficiency I'd seen in the others. Plates appeared on the table. Silverware. Water glasses. A stack of napkins.
I sat with my hands in my lap, watching this domestic scene unfold around me. The normalcy of it twisted something inside me. Mark was dead. His body was probably still on some coroner’s slab, and here we were about to eat chicken parmigiana like it was any ordinary day.
The smell that had seemed so appealing in the hallway now turned my stomach. Tomato sauce bubbled on the stove. Garlic bread warmed in the oven.
Life continued its relentless forward motion while I remained frozen in the moment I'd heard the news.
Kara lifted the ice water pitcher, her eyebrows raising in silent question. I managed a small nod, watching as the clear liquid filled my glass. The condensation beaded and ran down the sides like tears.
Cam approached with three plates balanced along her forearm, setting mine down with surprising gentleness. Steam rose from the chicken parmigiana, the red sauce bleeding into white pasta. A small bowl of salad appeared next to it, green and vibrant against the wooden table.
I stared at the fork beside my plate. My fingers curled around it eventually, the metal cool and unfamiliar in my grip. The weight of it felt wrong, like I was holding someone else's hand. I speared a piece of chicken, brought it to my lips. The first bite sat in my mouth, a tasteless mass that required concentration to chew. I swallowed hard against the tightness in my throat.
"The perimeter sensors on the east side need recalibrating," Kara said, cutting her chicken with precise movements.
"I can handle it tomorrow morning," Ellie replied, twirling pasta around her fork. "Weather report says clear skies, good visibility."
"We should check the generator too," Cam added, her voice so quiet I almost missed it.
Their words flowed around me like water around a stone. I took another mechanical bite, then another. The food might as well have been cardboard for all I tasted it. My body accepted the nutrition while my mind remained elsewhere, trapped in memories of gunshots and sirens and Mark's terror when they cut off his hand.
I ate because Ellie had guided me downstairs. I ate because my hollow stomach demanded it. I ate because it was easier than explaining why I couldn't. But I wasn't really there with them. I was a ghost at their table, present but not participating, watching life continue while mine remained frozen in grief.
Heavy footsteps crossed the foyer. Alex appeared in the doorway, her presence changing the air in the room like a shift in barometric pressure. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her normally perfect posture had given way to a slight slump.
"We've got a problem," she announced, then hesitated. "Maybe."
The casual conversation around the table died instantly. Kara set down her fork with a soft clink against porcelain. Cam's shoulders tensed visibly. Ellie stopped mid-motion, water pitcher suspended above her glass.
Alex ran a hand through her long hair. "Security system flagged something weird overnight. Three separate pings on the south perimeter."
She moved to the coffee pot, poured the remaining dregs into a mug without bothering to check if it was still hot. "Could be someone probing our defenses, testing response times." She took a sip and grimaced. "Or it's just another glitch in the hardware. Like before."
The kitchen felt suddenly colder. I gripped my fork tighter, my appetite vanishing completely.
"Well, which is it?" Kara asked, her voice flat, professional.
Alex leaned against the counter, eyes briefly closing. When she opened them again, they were bloodshot and unfocused. "Can't tell yet. Need to run full diagnostics." She set the mug down with a thud. "I've been up for thirty-six hours straight. Need sleep first, then I'll figure it out."
Her gaze swept across all of us, lingering on me for a moment too long. I looked away, unable to meet those eyes that seemed to see too much.
"Should we be concerned?" Ellie asked, her voice steady but her fingers tightening around her water glass.
Alex shook her head. The movement was loose, almost sloppy with exhaustion. "It's probably nothing. System's been solid for months." She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, smearing what looked like mascara residue across her cheekbone.
"But if it's not nothing?" Cam's voice was so quiet I had to lean forward to catch it. Her question hung in the air like smoke.
Alex's shoulders slumped further. "Four hours," she muttered, more to herself than to us. "Give me four hours of sleep and I'll take it all apart. Then we’ll know if we need to worry." She abandoned her coffee mug on the counter and shuffled toward the doorway. Her footsteps grew fainter as she climbed the stairs, each one heavier than the last.
No one spoke after she left. The kitchen felt like a vacuum, all the air sucked out by her departure. Kara stared at her notebook, but her pen remained motionless. Cam pushed a piece of chicken around her plate without lifting it to her mouth. Ellie folded and refolded her napkin into increasingly smaller squares.
I sat frozen between them, my fork suspended halfway to my mouth. The bite of pasta slid off and landed with a wet plop back onto my plate. Another threat? Or nothing? I couldn't tell anymore. The line between real danger and paranoia had blurred weeks ago, when I'd first been shuttled to this house in the middle of nowhere.
