Chapter 6 - DINNER WITH THE DEVIL
The drive to my childhood home felt like descending into a subterranean tomb. The house stood on a quiet suburban street, its exterior impeccably maintained, hiding the psychological torture chambers that had operated behind its closed doors for years. As we walked up the porch steps, the memories of locked doors, hidden bruises, and whispered threats pressed down on my shoulders like lead weights.
My mother opened the door wearing a soft knit sweater, looking every bit the hospitable suburban matriarch. “Welcome home, darlings,” she murmured, stepping aside to let us pass. The dining room table was set with fine china, silver candlesticks, and a centerpiece of autumn flowers. A bottle of deep red wine breathed on the sideboard.
From the moment we sat down, the psychological sparring began. She deployed every conversational weapon in her arsenal—subtle digs at my career, patronizing remarks about Wells, and weaponized nostalgia designed to make Josie feel guilty. For an hour, I played her game, nodding, smiling, and enduring the drip-feed of venom. But beneath the table, my hand rested safely against a high-end digital audio recorder sewn securely into the cuff of my sleeve, capturing every syllable of her escalating arrogance.
