Friday arrived with the kind of quiet expectancy that made Jen double-check the pie box on her passenger seat twice before pulling into the driveway. The house loomed larger at night—wide, immaculate, lights glowing warmly behind tall windows. It looked like something from a magazine, not a place where real people spilled wine or laughed too loud. She took a breath, smoothed her jacket, and rang the bell.
The door opened almost immediately.
"Jen! You made it," Amy said brightly, standing there pinky draped lazily over her arm like an accessory. The cat blinked at Jen, unimpressed.
"Hi," Jen said, smiling—just as the cat's whiskers twitched.
"Achoo!"
Amy laughed. "Oh no. I forgot—Pinky sheds like it's her job."
"It's okay," Jen said, rubbing her nose. "I'm fine. Just... cats and me."
Amy shifted Pinky to one arm and stepped aside. "Come in, come in. Dinner's almost ready."
Jen followed her inside, the scent of roasted vegetables and something savory wrapping around her immediately. As they walked, Amy glanced down at the pie box.
"You didn't have to bring anything."
"I wanted to," Jen said. "It felt rude not to."
Amy grinned. "You'll fit in just fine."
She ushered Jen toward the dining area, an open, polished space with a long wooden table that looked like it could seat a small council. David sat at the head, posture straight, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest ease without disorder. On the right side of the table sat the twins, identical in posture if not expression—elbows tucked in, eyes already fixed on Jen with open curiosity.
"Everyone," Amy announced cheerfully, setting Pinky down and taking the pie from Jen, "Jen brought pie."
She placed it carefully at the center of the table like an offering.
"That's very thoughtful," David said, standing to pull out a chair for Jen. His voice was calm, smooth, the kind that made you listen even when he wasn't saying much. "Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for having me," Jen replied, sitting.
The twins didn't stop staring.
"Chris , Toby ." Amy said sharply, giving them a look as she took her seat. "Stop staring. It's rude."
They looked down at once, chastened.
Jen laughed softly. "I don't mind. Really. Nice to meet you both."
The twins gave a warm smile and proceeded to eating their food
David smiled at that, just briefly, then sat. "So, Jen," he said, folding his hands, "how long have you been in the city?"
"About eight months," she said. "Still figuring it out."
"That's the best part," he said. "Before it starts telling you who you're supposed to be."
She liked that answer more than she expected.
"And what brought you here?" he asked, tone light, conversational.
"Work, mostly," Jen said. "A fresh start."
Amy poured herself a generous glass of wine, then another splash for good measure. "Fresh starts are overrated," she said, waving her glass vaguely. "They always come with fine print."
David glanced at her. "Easy."
"I'm fine," Amy said, already taking a sip.
David turned back to Jen. "Are you here alone?"
"Yes," Jen said. "I mean—single, if that's what you mean."
David nodded slowly, absorbing the information without comment.
Amy laughed suddenly, loud and unrestrained. "Single! Oh, enjoy it. Seriously." She raised her glass in an unsteady toast. "I love being a wife. I do. I wouldn't trade this for anything."
She gestured around the room—the house, the cars, the life.
"But," she continued, leaning closer to Jen, voice dropping conspiratorially, "sometimes I'm just stuck in this big house alone. My husband is a total workaholic." She giggled, eyes glassy. "Not complaining. Really. But as your friend"—she pointed at Jen with her glass—"I advise you to stay single. Marriage is for suckers."
She burst into hysterical laughter, the sound echoing awkwardly in the large room.
David's jaw tightened. "Amy," he said quietly. "That's enough."
The twins stared at their plates, silent.
Jen didn't know where to look. She smiled politely, unsure if she was supposed to laugh too.
Then, without warning, the lights went out.
The house plunged into darkness so complete it felt physical, pressing in on them. There was a brief clatter—someone's fork hitting the table—then nothing.
No laughter. No voices.
Just total silence.