Thanksgiving Day, the Chen household
Thanksgiving had always felt more like a formality than a celebration in the Chen household. The dining room was filled with the clatter of silverware, the muted hum of conversation, and the occasional polite laughter. It smelled of catered turkey and pumpkin pie—an expensive meal, beautifully prepared but devoid of warmth. Lilia could barely focus on the food in front of her. Her mind kept drifting, an uneasy feeling tightening in her chest. The past few weeks had felt like walking on a razor-thin edge, the ticking time bomb growing louder with each passing second.
The large dining table was crowded with her mother’s colleagues, all prominent figures from the firm, men and women whose sharp voices and sharper opinions made the room feel smaller. Among them sat Professor Jameson and his girlfriend, Phoebe, who made themselves comfortable in the sea of power suits and pearls. Lilia’s mother had always been good at gathering people who could serve her purpose. Jameson’sgirlfriend, Phoebe, came from a wealthy family, according to her mother.
Lilia was perched at the edge of the table, her gaze sliding from one face to another but never really landing on anyone. The weight of eyes on her felt suffocating. She could feel it—whispers about her involvement in Willow’s death still lurked beneath the polished veneer of polite conversation. The media hadn’t let up. Speculation. Accusations. And no answers. She was just as lost now as she had been two weeks ago.
Professor Jameson’s voice broke through her thoughts, startling her out of her daze. “Happy Thanksgiving, Ms. Chen.”
She jumped at his sudden appearance by her side, spilling a bit of her water. “Oh,” she stammered, forcing a smile. “You scared me.”
“My apologies,” he said, his tone soft. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“No, it’s fine,” Lilia lied. “I’m just a bit jumpy.”
He regarded her with an understanding look, a small frown tugging at his lips. “How are you holding up? Everything aside?”
Jameson had always been someone she could talk to, even before everything with Willow. He had a calmness about him that made people want to open up. Perhaps that’s why Willow had confided in him too. For a moment, Lilia considered telling him everything—how she hadn’t been able to sleep, how every second felt like it was leading to something disastrous—but instead, she gave a noncommittal shrug. “Things are . . . okay,” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Okay?” His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing with concern. “For what it’s worth, your character has never been in question for me. You’re a bright young woman, Lilia. I think you’ve just found yourself in an awful situation. But that doesn’t define you.”
Lilia let out a dry laugh, the sound bitter in her throat. “And if it doesn’t get better? What if I end up in an orange jumpsuit? Will my character still be ‘untarnished’ then?”
“Never.” His hand found her shoulder, squeezing lightly. “The truth always prevails in the end. Remember that.”
She wished she could believe him, but the words felt hollow. The truth never served them well.
Across the room, a soft chime of a fork against a glass signaled the beginning of dinner. Her mother stood, lifting her champagne flute with a practiced smile that looked far too much like a politician’s. “Thank you all for being here to share this day of hope and joy with us,” she said, raising her glass higher. “Please, eat.”
Lilia settled into her seat beside her mother, though it felt more like sinking into quicksand. The long table was laden with beautifully presented dishes, every bit of it looking like it belonged in a glossy magazine. And yet, it all felt so artificial. This wasn’t what Thanksgiving was supposed to be, was it? It used to be about family—about her dad’s terrible jokes and the warmth that only a home-cooked meal could bring. But those days had died with him. Now, everything was about appearances.
She pushed the food around her plate as the conversations around her blurred into a meaningless drone of politics, firm deals, and idle gossip. Her mother nudged her with her elbow more than once, trying to bring her into the conversation, but Lilia just couldn’t summon the energy. She felt elsewhere. Her mind drifted back to Amelia Montgomery. There was something so wrong about the way Amelia had flaunted herself at the fundraiser in Willow’s clothes, her glasses discarded like some costume accessory. Lilia’s stomach twisted, a sense of dread settling deep within her bones.
Her phone buzzed against her thigh. She glanced down, frowning at the message from Eleanor.
Eleanor
SOS.
Her brow furrowed. What?
A photo followed. A house cordoned off with police tape, officers swarming the perimeter like vultures.
Her mother kicked her under the table, leaning close. “Lilia, no phones at the table,” she said, her smile tight but her eyes cold and cutting. “Put it away.”
Lilia barely heard her. Another message popped up on her screen.
Eleanor
Seriously. SOS. Now.
A location pinged.
Lilia’s stomach lurched. She dropped her napkin, chair scraping loudly as she pushed back from the table.
The room went silent. Her mother’s eyes bore into her. “Lilia,” she hissed, “sit down. We’ve hardly even begun eating.”
Lilia’s heart pounded in her chest, the soft wail of sirens cutting through the quiet air. She rushed to the window, her breath catching as she saw the flashing lights of police cars speeding down the street.
