Sundays were sacred in the Kane household—or what passed for it.
6 p.m., the old Victorian in Oakridge suburbs, thirty minutes by overpacked train from my concrete cage.
Mom insisted: "Family sticks, Elara. No matter the pull."
Dad's Ford was in the drive, polished as his excuses.
I arrived in a thrift sundress—floral, forgiving on my curves—notebook tucked in my bag like a talisman.
The door swung open to Mom's hug, lavender and lorazepam clinging to her cardigan.
Ellen Kane, fifty-one going on fragile: Once a teacher, now a ghost haunting her own home, pills prescribed after my brother's accident a decade back.
DUI, wrapped around a tree.
Our fault for not seeing the signs.
She pulled back, eyes scanning. "You look tired, baby. That job wearing you?"
"Always does."
I stepped inside, the scent of pot roast hitting like nostalgia's fist—comforting, cloying.
Dad emerged from the den, tie loosened, newspaper folded under arm.
Richard Kane: Architect turned consultant, salt-and-pepper beard hiding a jaw set for arguments.
"There's my girl."
Shoulder pat, not hug.
Affection was blueprints to him—precise, measured.
Dinner table: Passed roast, mashed potatoes fluffier than Mom's smiles.
Small talk flowed like watered wine.
"Work treating you well?" Dad asked, fork spearing a carrot.
"Same old. Tips are decent."
Lie—last week, Marco's "bonus" came with a hotel key card I flushed.
Mom's turn: "Lila called. Said you're seeing that Theo boy?"
Her brows arched, hopeful.
Lila, the traitor—always feeding intel like it bought loyalty.
"Just friends. He's... nice."
Theo's texts burned in my pocket: Missed you at the bar. Coffee tomorrow?
Dad grunted. "Nice is fine, but aim higher. Willow Heights has eligible—"
"Richard."
Mom's warning tone, soft as a plea.
The Wire crashed in via the TV in the corner, volume low but insistent.
Local news: Victim #5 identified—corporate exec, found in her high-rise, walls scrawled with her own emails to lovers, body etched with Betrayer in shallow cuts.
Alive, but broken.
Experts warn: He's evolving, targeting the powerful now.
Cut to Commissioner Hale: "We're ramping up—drones, facial rec. Public: Stay indoors after dark. This isn't random; it's personal."
Mom's fork clattered.
"God, Richard, what if it was her?"
Her hand gripped mine, nails digging half-moons.
Real fear—raw, parental, the kind that choked on hypotheticals.
Dad cleared his throat. "Overblown. Feds are in; they'll net him."
"Elara, you taking the train home? Call an Uber. My treat."
I nodded, throat tight. "I'm fine. Bus is lit like a stadium."
Lie again—last ride, a drunk pawed my thigh till I elbowed him off.
But admitting weakness? That invited the fix: Dad's lectures, Mom's hovering.
Dessert was apple pie, Mom's recipe, served with stories of my childhood—ballet recitals I quit, poems Dad framed but never read.
Under it, the strain: His late nights at the "office" (affair whispers from neighbors), her pill count climbing.
Me, the glue, fraying at the edges.
Post-pie, I helped with dishes, suds warm on my skin.
"You deserve more, Elara," Mom murmured, drying a plate. "A man who sees you. Not like us."
"Like you?"
The words slipped, sharp.
She flinched. "We tried. Love's... wires, sometimes. Tangled."
Dad called from the hall: "Train's in twenty. Uber's queued."
The ride back was silent, city lights smearing like tears.
My phone buzzed—Lila: Family fun? Spill.
Theo: Dreamt of you.
And an unknown: Beautiful dress. Be safe out there.
Spam? Or the city's pulse, watching?
In bed, notebook open: Threads pull, but who holds the spool? Family, friends, phantoms— all weaving me tight.
The Wire's shadow lengthened.
And somewhere, in the dark weave, a new thread stirred.