Nicole froze. Edgar’s parents were dead—undeniably, grotesquely dead.
They sat perfectly still—hands folded in their laps, clothes neatly pressed, faces waxy and wrong in a way her brain refused to name. They looked like a memory someone had dressed up and posed.
“Dad, Mom,” Edgar said, smiling warmly, “I’d like to introduce Nicole. The girl I’ve been telling you about.”
He gestured toward her as if they were simply hosting guests.
Nicole didn’t move. Her limbs felt numb. The air smelled too clean—like lemon polish and artificial lavender, masking something much older.
She looked at Edgar, her face stiff, eyes wide. Clue me in, she begged silently. Please tell me this is a prank. A bit. A bad joke.
He gave a small laugh, turning back to the bodies. “She’s just nervous meeting you guys,” he said gently. “Can’t blame her—first impressions and all.”
Nicole’s breath hitched. The spell broke just long enough for her to nod, jerky and too fast.
“I’m so sorry,” she blurted. “It’s… so nice to meet you!”
Her voice pitched up at the end like a question. She forced a smile that felt surgically attached.
Edgar beamed. “Let’s sit. Dinner’s getting cold.”
He pulled out her chair, ever the gentleman.
She moved automatically, limbs out of sync with her mind. She sat across from his parents—no, across from two dressed corpses, be honest, say it—and folded her hands in her lap, mirroring them.
“Edgar has told me so much about you,” she said brightly, too brightly.
What followed was twenty minutes of mock meet-the-parents theater, with Edgar cheerfully playing host, son, and translator.
“She was top of her class,” he told them proudly. “Nicole’s really driven.”
“Oh, I’m not that impressive,” she said, because that was the expected line, and she wasn’t ready to find out what happened if she went off-script.
“Dad says you’ve got a good head on your shoulders,” Edgar added, glancing at the unmoving body beside him. “And Mom loves your blouse.”
Nicole blinked. “Tell them I said thank you.”
She made eye contact with no one. She chewed with deliberate slowness. The macaroni tasted like paste.
The longer it went on, the more real it felt—like the longer she smiled, the more her face would forget how to stop.
They didn’t move. They didn’t blink. But still, she caught herself nodding at them like they might.
Just make it through dinner. Don’t trigger him. Don’t ask questions. Don’t cry.
He hasn’t threatened her. He hasn’t raised his voice. He hasn’t even touched her without permission.
And yet.
Every cell in her body screamed.
We are definitely breaking up