Consciousness returned in pieces.
First, the ache—deep, throbbing, centered just above Jen's jaw. Then the smell of food, still warm, still disturbingly normal. Her eyelids fluttered open, the room swimming as her vision struggled to focus.
She was back at the dining table.
Her hands were free, resting limply in her lap, though her arms felt heavy, unresponsive. The chandelier glowed overhead, its light too bright, too cheerful for the pounding in her skull.
Across from her sat David.
He was rigid, shoulders tense, his eyes fixed forward in a way that made Jen's stomach drop. To his right, the twins sat side by side, impossibly calm for children who should have been crying. One of them—Chris, she thought—was chewing slowly.
Her gaze dropped.
The pie.
A slice was missing. A fork rested beside a half-empty plate, crumbs scattered like nothing in the world had gone wrong.
A sharp, sickening sense of wrongness crept over her.
"Amy?" Jen croaked.
Amy was there—but not the Amy from earlier. She stood near the wall, pale, eyes glassy with terror, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as if holding herself together by force alone.
And then Jen saw them.
Three men in ski masks.
The first sat at the head of the table, occupying David's place as if it had always belonged to him. He leaned back comfortably, one arm draped over the chair, a gun resting casually in his other hand. His posture was relaxed, confident—commanding.
Behind the twins stood the second man. He was average in build, his weapon lowered, stance loose. Something about him felt restrained, measured. He watched the children carefully, not with hunger or menace, but with an unsettling calm.
The third man made Jen's breath hitch.
He was enormous—easily twice her size, muscles stretching the fabric of his dark clothing. He leaned against the wall behind the leader, chest rising and falling in heavy, audible breaths. Even still, even motionless, he radiated danger. The kind that didn't need to move to be lethal.
Jen swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The leader noticed her stir and smiled beneath the mask—she could hear it in his voice even before he spoke.
"Ah," he said pleasantly. "You're awake. Good. I'd hate to repeat myself."
He leaned forward slightly. "I should start by apologizing. Truly. We've come to ruin an evening that seemed to be going marvelously well."
His tone was polite. Almost warm.
"But," he continued, lifting a finger as if making a reasonable point, "if everyone cooperates and behaves, I see no reason why we can't let you carry on with your beautiful evening."
Amy let out a small, involuntary sob.
The twins froze.
David said nothing.
Jen's mind raced, trying to count exits, possibilities, anything. Her gaze flicked toward the monstrous man again—his heavy breathing filled the room like a warning.
The leader kept talking, his voice smooth, practiced. "We're not animals. We don't enjoy unnecessary mess. So let's all be sensible, yes?"
Just then, footsteps echoed from the stairs.
Slow. Unhurried.
Another figure emerged into the dining room.
Jen's breath caught.
This one was different.
He said nothing—just strolled in like he belonged there. Slimmer than the others, tall—possibly the tallest of them all. His movements were fluid, deliberate. Where the others felt forceful, he felt precise.
He stopped near the table, tilting his head slightly as if studying the scene.
Jen stared, flabbergasted.
There are four.
The leader gestured casually toward the newcomer.
"You're right on time."
The tall burglar gave a small nod but said nothing, his gaze sweeping over everyone at the table—lingering on Jen just a second too long.
Her skin prickled.
Whatever was happening in this house, Jen knew one thing with terrifying clarity.
This dinner was far from over.