Chapter 4 - The Family Dinner
Two nights later, my mother’s dining room was decorated with leftovers from the wedding—faded floral centerpieces, half-empty bottles of cheap red wine, and an atmosphere so thick with tension you could cut it with a knife.
Mom had insisted on hosting a "make-up dinner" to patch things up between Jessica and me. According to Mom, my reaction at the wedding reception had been "overly dramatic," and I owed Jessica an apology for storming out and ruining the mood.
"I still can't believe you made such a scene," Mom scolded, ladling heavy beef stew into a ceramic bowl. "Your sister was glowing, and you had to make it all about your little scratch."
I sat across the table, wearing a high-necked black sweater that partially hid the white gauze bandage on my cheek. Across from me sat Jessica, her arms crossed, glaring daggers at me while Brian rubbed her shoulders with soothing, theatrical affection.
"It’s fine, Mom," Jessica huffed, rolling her eyes. "Rachel has always loved playing the martyr. Remember when she broke her arm at my tenth birthday party just so everyone would look at her?"
I stared at her, feeling a profound wave of pity wash over the anger. How could someone be so entirely blinded by their own narcissism?
"I didn't break my arm on purpose, Jess," I said softly, keeping my voice meticulously calm. "And I'm here tonight because I want to apologize for leaving early."
Brian gave me a warm, condescending smile. "Takes a big person to admit that, Rach. We’re all family here. Life’s too short to hold grudges, especially over a little buttercream accident."
"An accident," I repeated, holding his gaze.
Brian’s smile flickered for a fraction of a second—just a microscopic tightening around the corners of his eyes before he recovered. "Well, yes. Of course. What else would it be?"
"I don't know, Brian," I said, leaning forward slightly. "The doctors at the hospital seemed pretty fascinated by that piece of industrial steel they pulled out of my face. They said it looked like it came from a heavy-duty cutting machine. You used to manage a manufacturing plant, didn't you?"
The dining room went dead silent. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked loudly, marking the seconds like a countdown.
Brian’s hand stopped rubbing Jessica’s shoulder. His face went completely expressionless.
"Where did you hear that ridiculous conspiracy theory?" Brian asked, his voice dropping an octave, losing its warm facade.
"From the police," I said clearly.
Jessica slammed her fork down onto her plate, her face flushing crimson. "Are you out of your mind, Rachel?! You brought cops into this? You are investigating my husband over a party prank?!"
"Jess, listen to me," I pleaded, reaching across the table. "Brian isn't who you think he is. Look at his financial history. Look at the wedding cake—"
"Shut up!" Jessica shrieked, tears of pure rage welling in her eyes. "I am sick of you trying to ruin my life! Every time something good happens to me, you have to tear it down! Get out of my house—get out of our lives!"
"Jessica, calm down," Mom stammered, looking back and forth between us in sheer panic. "Rachel, maybe you should leave..."
Before I could stand up, the front door of my mother’s house rattled violently.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Before anyone could answer, the door swung open. Detective Mendoza and three uniformed officers stepped into the foyer, their badges gleaming under the hallway lights.
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Brian was out of his chair in a heartbeat, his chair screeching against the hardwood floor. "What is the meaning of this? You can't just barge into a private home—"
"Brian Vance," Detective Mendoza said, her voice ringing out crisp and authoritative as she stepped into the dining room. "You are under arrest for reckless endangerment, assault with a deadly weapon, and tampering with consumer goods."
