Chapter 3 - THRESHOLD OF THE UNTHINKABLE
The sub-zero chill was instantly swallowed by the overwhelming sensory onslaught of the Ellison household. Warm air heavy with the rich, buttery scent of sage stuffing, roasted turkey, and cinnamon drifted out across the porch.
Seven-year-old Leo, Mara’s nephew, dashed down the shoveled walkway in flannel dinosaur pajamas, brandishing a plastic candy cane like a sword. Right behind him came Owen, her thirty-four-year-old brother, holding an open bottle of craft beer with a worried scowl plastered across his face. Claire, Owen’s wife, followed closely, frantically wiping flour off her hands onto a gingham apron.
“You're late!” Owen shouted down the steps, his breath pluming in the freezing air like steam from a locomotive. “Did you bring the pecan pie? Dad has checked his watch four times in the last ten minutes, and if we don't start carving by seven, he’s going to lock himself in the den with a crossword puzzle!”
“I brought the pie,” Mara called back, stepping out of the driver's side and slamming her door against the wind. “And I brought a guest.”
Graham stepped out from the passenger side, his boots crunching softly on the packed snow. He reached up, unbuttoning his heavy dark wool coat as he walked up the illuminated walkway toward the threshold. The warm light from the porch fixture caught the silver threads in his hair and illuminated the sharp, uncompromising planes of his face.
From the dining room, the swinging door burst open with a heavy thud. Elaine Ellison pushed through, carrying a massive ceramic serving dish piled high with steaming green beans coated in garlic butter.
“Mara, thank goodness,” Elaine said, her voice bright with maternal relief as she stepped into the wide entryway. “Your father was about to start carving the—terminator—the bird, I mean—”
Elaine stopped dead in her tracks.
The sentence dissolved completely in her throat. The heavy ceramic bowl remained suspended in midair, trembling violently in her pale, aging hands as a few green beans spilled over the rim and clattered onto the hardwood floor.
Graham stood squarely under the bright brass entryway chandelier, slowly pulling off his thick leather gloves.
He looked directly at her.
Elaine’s face went entirely, horrifyingly white. All the warmth and festive cheer drained from her features in a single, terrifying heartbeat, leaving her looking like a woman staring straight into an open grave.
“Owen…” she whispered, her voice cracking into a ragged, breathless gasp that barely carried over the sound of Christmas carols playing from the kitchen radio.
Owen frowned, completely oblivious, turning from his sister to look at the stranger standing in his family’s foyer. His gaze moved lazily from the expensive charcoal sweater to the broad shoulders, and finally locked onto the pale, distinct scar cutting beside Graham's left eyebrow.
May you like
The beer bottle in Owen’s hand lowered inch by agonizing inch until it struck the cast-iron radiator beneath the hall mirror with a sharp, metallic clink.
“No way,” Owen breathed, his eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated disbelief. Color vanished from his face as well. “No... that’s impossible. You're... you're dead.”
