"Sharon, you should eat more," said Alex's mother, who is also supposedly my mother even though I had never laid eyes on her before this very moment.
She spooned another generous portion of creamy fettuccine onto my plate, the sauce dripping thickly like some kind of manufactured warmth, while I plastered on a fake smile that refused to reach my eyes or soften the hard edges of my suspicion.
My brother Alex had called me yesterday evening to inform me that my parents wanted me to come home for a family dinner, his voice carrying that polished urgency I now recognized as rehearsed. They want me here for some reason.
I arrived with a calculated plan already fully formed in my mind because I understood perfectly well that I would not get another opportunity like this to investigate the protagonist's family in such dangerously close quarters
