The dining room, bathed in the soft glow of a chandelier that had seen better days, was an unsettling tableau. Chris and the brute sat around the old oak table, their rough edges softened by the flickering candlelight, as they passed a bottle of wine between them. The wine was a good vintage, one Stanley had been saving for a special occasion, though this was hardly what he’d had in mind. There was an oddity to the scene, a twisted reflection of something far more innocent—a couple of grandkids visiting their elderly grandparents, enjoying a meal and a chat as if nothing in the world was amiss.
Stanley, his usually sharp eyes now slightly glazed from the Scotch and wine, played his part to perfection. He spoke with the ease of a seasoned storyteller, recounting tales from his days in the Korean War, stories he hadn’t told in years, if ever. His voice was steady with just the right amount of nostalgia, but beneath it all, his mind was racing. He knew exactly what this dinner was—a fragile truce, a brief moment of civility before the inevitable storm swallowed them whole.
In the kitchen, the atmosphere was equally strange. Chris’s son, a young man whose eyes carried the same hard glint as his father’s, hovered near Mary, handing her spices and tasting the food with an eagerness that felt oddly out of place. Mary, ever the hostess, smiled and made small talk, though her mind was far from the mundane task of cooking. She imagined, just for a moment, that this was a normal autumn evening, that this was what life could have been if she and Stanley had chosen to have children. The thought brought a bittersweet pang to her heart, but she quickly pushed it aside. Reality, grim and inescapable, was never far from her mind. The sight of Dorothy’s lifeless body, the blood seeping into the floor, flashed behind her eyes, and she had to fight to keep her hands from trembling.
The paprikash, thankfully, was already prepared. It only needed to be warmed, with a few fresh vegetables and rolls to complete the meal. The simplicity of the task allowed her mind to wander, though not too far. Every movement, every decision was measured, calculated. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake—not now, not when everything depended on the illusion that this was just another dinner, just another evening in the quiet life of Stanley and Mary.
As Mary and the boy carried the food into the dining room, the scene they walked into was equally surreal. Stanley and his guests were deep into the wine, their cheeks flushed, their laughter a little too loud. The brute, who had expressed little other than rage throughout the evening, now nodded in grudging approval as Stanley regaled them with tales of survival and bravery, his rough hands aiming a specter of the rifle he had carried seventy years earlier, each gesture echoing a long-ago battle. Chris, his usual sharpness dulled by alcohol, was leaning back in his chair, a bemused smile playing on his lips. He seemed almost content, as if for just a moment the treasure in the basement and the violence of the day were forgotten.
But Mary knew better. She could see it in Stanley’s eyes—the way they flicked to her as she entered, the brief tightening of his jaw. He was waiting, watching for any sign that things were about to go wrong. She set the dishes on the table, her movements calm and graceful, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. The room was filled with the rich, savory aroma of the paprikash, a scent that should have been comforting but instead seemed to hang in the air like a prelude to something far darker.
As they all settled down to eat, the conversation continued, the tension beneath the surface barely noticeable to an outsider. Chris, his son, and the brute laughed and ate with the enthusiasm of men who knew they were in control, who knew they had the upper hand. But Stanley and Mary were only pretending to be their hosts, hiding from the truth, desperately fleeing the ancient allure of predator and prey. They were all playing a part in this strange, twisted game.
Stanley leaned back in his chair and gently caressed his glass of wine as he gave himself over to a deluge of memories. The truth of the here and now drifted away as he recounted a story for his rapt audience. “It was a kind of chaos that eats at your sanity, makes you question what’s real and what’s not. We were completely outnumbered. The night was so dark it felt like it had weight, pressing down and making it hard to breathe. The air reeked of smoke and burning flesh. Bullets screamed past so close you could feel the heat, and the ground shook with every explosion. Men were screaming—voices that didn’t even sound human—some in anger, some in pain. I remember tripping over bodies as I tried to push forward, friends I’d known since basic lying in the mud, their eyes wide open but seeing nothing. The blood… there was so much blood, mixing with the dirt, turning everything into a sticky, red mess. We fought like animals, no reason, just blind instinct. By morning, the battlefield was a graveyard. The silence was the worst part—just a few of us left standing, covered in blood and filth, trying to make sense of why we’d survived when so many hadn’t.”
“Enough, enough,” Mary cut in, her voice sharp as a knife slicing through the air. Her eyes flicked to Stanley, not just a glance but a warning—one that carried the weight of past nights when his stories wandered too close to the edge of madness. “That’s not proper dinner conversation,” she added, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Beneath the table, her hand trembled, a subtle reminder that the ghosts of old battles were never truly gone, just waiting for a moment of weakness to resurface.
Stanley blinked, as if waking from a dream, and the tension in his shoulders eased. “Quite right, my darling. Quite right.” His smile was apologetic, but there was something haunted in his eyes, a glimpse of the man who had seen too much. “The boys were just curious is all.” He tried to brush it off, slipping back into the role of the genial host, as if this were just an ordinary dinner party. But the illusion was fragile, like a thin layer of ice over deep, dark water, and everyone at the table could feel it cracking.
Chris exchanged a look with his brother, the unspoken agreement passing between them—just play along. This was the closest they’d come to normalcy in years, and it was easier, safer, to pretend that this was how things might have been. Stanley had done more than enough to keep them alive, to protect them from the law outside, and it was hard not to let their guard down, just a little. The old man wasn’t just a helpless victim; he was a survivor, like them.
But the brute, sitting at the far end of the table, wasn’t so easily swayed. For a moment, just a fleeting one, the brute allowed himself to imagine what his childhood might have been like with a grandfather like Stanley. The thought was unsettling, twisting in his gut like a knife. But the old man’s success in getting rid of the police, his uncanny ability to navigate the dangers that had destroyed so many others, and the treasure now hidden below—it all softened the brute’s hard edges, dulled the anger he had carried for so long. He wasn’t ready to trust, not completely, but the hostility had ebbed, replaced by a weary resignation. The past couldn’t be undone, but maybe, just maybe, the future held a sliver of hope.
As they settled into an uneasy silence, the anticipation of the meal and the promise of wealth hanging in the air, Chris allowed himself to relax, just a bit. But in the back of his mind, a voice whispered that the peace they had found here was as fragile as a house of cards, one breath away from collapse when they would be forced to do what needed to be done.
“That was our fault, ma’am,” Chris said, his voice carefully measured. “We saw the medals on display in the hallway and asked how he got them. We didn’t mean any harm.”
Mary’s forced smile was tight, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. “No harm done.” Her gaze flickered over the group, searching for cracks in the fragile calm that hung over the table like a thread ready to snap. “I hope everyone’s hungry. We’ve made enough to feed an army.” With practiced grace, she began ladling generous portions onto each plate, the clinking of silverware against porcelain the only sound in the room for a moment. Then, she took her seat beside Stanley, her hand resting just close enough to his to offer comfort—or a warning.
About the Author:
Mystery and thriller author K.C. Kissig writes from his home in Northeast Ohio, drawing inspiration from family life with his wife and two children.
