Chapter 2 - An Empty Table and Rising Panic
Across town in our gated subdivision, Karen stood in the center of our expansive gourmet kitchen, paralyzed with disbelief. The high-end double ovens were turned off, cold and dark. The quartz island, which had been covered in steaming platters, carving boards, and crystal serving bowls just thirty minutes earlier, was completely bare except for a lone roll of paper towels and a cutting board wiped clean with lemon disinfectant.
Her phone buzzed in her palm, vibrating against her manicured fingernails. It was her mother.
"Karen, darling, we just turned into your neighborhood," Evelyn’s crisp, melodic voice chimed through the speaker. "Richard brought that wonderful pinot noir from the private cellar, and your Uncle Greg has his famous appetite ready. I hope that enormous bird is resting properly. You know your father can’t stand dry poultry."
Karen swallowed hard, her throat feeling like sandpaper. She looked around the cavernous kitchen, her eyes darting from empty counter to empty cabinet. "Mom... um, yes. We’re... we’re almost ready."
"Is that mechanic father-in-law of yours already there?" Evelyn asked, not bothering to disguise the subtle sneer in her tone. "Because if he is, please make sure he doesn't sit next to Richard. You know how Richard’s allergies flare up around industrial oils, and frankly, last Christmas his conversation about automotive alternators was utterly exhausting."
"He’s not here, Mom," Karen whispered, her chest tightening with an unfamiliar, dread-filled panic. "Dad’s not coming."
"Oh, wonderful! See, darling? A little firm boundary-setting works wonders. We’re pulling into your driveway now."
The call ended with a sharp click. Outside, the crunch of luxury tires over concrete signaled the arrival of two pristine sedans: her parents' Lexus and Uncle Greg's brand-new Mercedes. Karen dashed to the front window, peeling back the linen sheer curtains. She watched her mother step out, draped in a tailored wool coat, followed by Richard in an expensive sweater vest, carrying a mahogany wine box. Behind them, Uncle Greg and Aunt Martha were laughing, brushing off the light Indiana snowflakes.
They were expecting a five-star domestic display. They were expecting the Dalton household showcase, where Karen played the flawless hostess, serving a feast that Rick had spent three days preparing from scratch while managing his HVAC emergency calls.
Karen rushed toward the front door, her heart hammering against her ribs. She flung it open just as Richard reached the top brick step.
"Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart!" Richard boomed, stepping inside and handing her the wine box without looking at her face. "Smells... well, actually, it doesn't smell like much in here. Don't tell me the turkey’s already carved and in warming drawers?"
"Happy Thanksgiving, dear," Evelyn said, gliding past and offering a cool cheek for Karen to kiss. She stepped into the formal dining room, admiring the sterling silver cutlery, the bone china, and the elaborate centerpiece of white hydrangeas and dried eucalyptus. "Oh, the table setting is lovely as always, Karen. Truly immaculate. Where is Rick? Hiding in the garage with his tools, I presume?"
Uncle Greg wandered toward the kitchen, rubbing his stomach in anticipation. "Alright, Karen, point me toward the appetizers. I skipped breakfast just so I could do justice to that bird Rick talks about all week."
Greg pushed through the swinging kitchen door and stopped dead in his tracks.
The silence that followed was heavy and bizarre. Karen hurried behind him, her hands trembling as she smoothed down her skirt. Greg turned around slowly, looking thoroughly confused.
"Uh... Karen? Did you guys have a fire or something?"
Richard and Evelyn walked in right behind him, attracted by the odd tone in Greg's voice. They looked around the vast, spotless, silent kitchen. The stainless steel appliances gleamed, but there was no steam, no roasting aromas, no gravy simmering on the six-burner range. Nothing.
"Where is the food, Karen?" Evelyn demanded, her eyebrows arching high on her forehead. "And where is your husband?"
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Karen looked at the three of them, the carefully constructed facade of her perfect Thanksgiving dinner crumbling into dust before their very eyes. "Rick... Rick left."
"Left?" Richard barked, setting his wine bottle hard onto the quartz island with an echoing thud. "What do you mean he left? It’s two o’clock on Thanksgiving Day! Where the hell did he go with our dinner?!"
