Chapter 2 - The Blood on the Countertop
The silence in the kitchen was thick enough to choke on. The only sound was the steady drip of blood hitting the polished white quartz island, blooming into vivid crimson puddles. The sharp ceramic edge of the mixing bowl lay shattered across the floor, glistening beneath the recessed lights.
Patricia’s hand was still raised in the air, trembling, but not with fear—with pure, unadulterated outrage that Ethan had dared to raise his voice at her. Nicole sat on the barstool, her sneer slowly melting into a look of panicked calculation. She instantly pulled her oversized knit sweater tighter around her stomach, leaning back as if she were the one who had just survived an assault.
“Ethan, lower your voice,” Patricia demanded, instantly recovering her imperious tone. “You have no right to speak to your mother like that. Your wife threw an absolute tantrum because I asked her to do a simple favor for your sister. She dropped the bowl herself out of sheer spite.”
Ethan didn't blink. He walked past his mother as if she were a ghost, his eyes locked on my hand. His face was chalk-white, the muscles in his jaw ticking with suppressed rage. He gently grabbed a clean dish towel from the oven handle and wrapped it firmly around my palm, applying pressure with steady, shaking fingers.
“Does it need stitches?” he asked, his voice low, vibrating with a danger I had rarely heard in the seven years we’d been together.
“Probably three or four,” I replied quietly. “The shard caught the meat of my palm when she threw it.”
“She threw it!” Nicole chimed in, pointing an accusing finger at me. “Ethan, she’s lying! Mom reached for the bowl to make a salad, and Harper ripped it out of her hands! You know how dramatic she is! What about my stress? What about the baby? You’re screaming at your pregnant sister while she’s bleeding on purpose for attention!”
Ethan turned slowly. He didn't yell. That was the most terrifying thing about him when he reached his breaking point. He got eerily quiet.
“Nicole,” Ethan said, pointing toward the hallway. “Pack your bags. Take your mother. You have twenty minutes before I call the sheriff’s department to escort you off the property for domestic battery.”
“Battery?” Patricia gasped, clutching her pearls in textbook melodramatic fashion. “Are you out of your mind? You would call the police on your own flesh and blood over this… this interloper? In your own home?”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Mom,” Ethan said, pulling out his phone. “First, look up at the ceiling corner. That black dome? High-definition camera. Audio and video. It uploads directly to an encrypted cloud server. I watched the live notification ping on my phone while I was pulling into the driveway. I saw you throw the bowl. I heard every word you said about her money not mattering.”
Patricia froze. Her eyes darted to the small, inconspicuous camera nestled beside the crown molding. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving behind a sallow, aged grimace.
“And second,” Ethan continued, opening the front door and propping it wide open to the humid summer air, “this house isn’t mine. It was bought with Harper’s family trust. I am merely a co-signer on the deed. If Harper presses charges, you won't just be homeless tonight, Mom. You’ll be spending the weekend in county lockup.”
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Nicole stood up so fast she forgot to pretend her back hurt. “Ethan, you can’t do this! I have nowhere to go! Marcus dumped me!”
“Then you should have thought about that before treating my wife like your personal maid,” Ethan said coldly. “Fifteen minutes. Or I hit send on the video file to Officer Miller.”
