Chapter 4: Stew and Schemes

That night, after dinner, the old lady slowly woke up. She blinked around the living room, eyes darting like a cornered raccoon.

At the dinner table, she deliberately found fault with everything.

"The meat’s so tough—trying to break my teeth? Don’t you know I don’t eat seafood? You made smoked salmon on purpose. Now that life is better, you start wasting food, huh? Four people making eight dishes."

She started to put the roast beef and smoked salmon in front of me into the fridge, moving slowly, daring me to stop her.

"Put it down. I said, put it down—didn’t you hear? You don’t listen to nice words, do you? Max, go!"

With Max’s barking, the old lady reluctantly set down her fork, glaring at me with eyes sharp as tacks.

I tilted my head:

"If you think the meat’s too tough, drink some soup. You know why stubborn old folks live so long?" I grinned, ladling broth into her bowl.

Marcus tried to lighten the mood:

"Because they love chicken noodle soup. It’s healthy." He shrugged.

"Wrong. It’s because they’re clever—they know who not to mess with." I let the words hang there, my gaze locked on hers.

"Grandma, you’re a clever person, aren’t you?" My voice was all challenge.

The old lady glared back, silent, jaw working.

"Max!" I called, and Max barked, tail wagging. "Yes, yes, yes."

"Speak, Max!" He let out another sharp bark. Marcus snorted: "He’s got opinions, that’s for sure."

"Are you crazy? I already agreed, and you still want your dog to bite me!" The old lady screeched, shifting her feet.

"Move your foot—you’re stepping on his toy." My patience was running thin.

With Max around, the old lady didn’t dare make trouble at night. The house was tense, but peaceful—the kind of peace that comes from knowing where the line is drawn.

That night, as we lay in bed, Marcus hugged my waist, tears soaking my shoulder as he cried softly:

"Rachel, why did you only come now? If only I’d met you earlier. Babe, I love you."

We found a pocket of warmth in all the chaos, curled together while moonlight crept through the blinds.

In the morning, Marcus went to feed Max. He whistled, shook the treat jar—but the house was too quiet. He searched every room, calling for Max with rising dread. I joined him in the backyard, the scent of cut grass and the distant drone of a neighbor’s lawnmower hanging in the air. We called for Max until our voices cracked. When I saw the fear in Marcus’s eyes, I hugged him tight. That’s when we knew—something was horribly wrong.

Marcus’s panic grew. He turned to me, hands trembling on the kitchen counter:

"What do we do, Rachel? Max is gone."

Suddenly, something clicked. Marcus bolted to the kitchen, footsteps echoing through the house. He found a dark puddle of blood on the white tile, already drying at the edges. Black hairs—just like Max’s—stuck out from the trash can. My stomach dropped, cold and hollow.

Furious, Marcus confronted the old lady:

"Admit it! Did you kill Max?" His voice cracked, loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

"You brat! How can you talk to your grandma like that? Have some respect! I cooked for you early in the morning, and now I’m the villain?" The old lady clutched her chest, playing up her innocence.

"It was you! You stewed my rabbit before!"

"Jason, control your son! He’s over twenty and still so rude to his elders!" She yelled, voice rising to a fever pitch.

Derek and Lillian rushed in. The house felt smaller, the air thick.

The old lady grabbed Lillian:

"You say—you got up earlier than me. Did you see me kill the dog?"

"N-no." Lillian’s hands twisted the hem of her cardigan, eyes full of tears.

"Forget it, it’s not a big deal. Let’s eat first and look for him after. He can’t be lost." The old lady’s voice was honeyed, trying to smooth over blood with a pat on the head.

"That’s right. Our granddaughter-in-law is the sensible one." She looked at me, a predator’s smile on her face.

At the table, she ladled me a bowl of stew. The aroma hit me like a punch—rich, fatty, unmistakably wrong. My hands shook as I lifted the spoon, the metallic taste of fear on my tongue. I flashed back to Max’s puppy eyes the first time I brought him home.

"Granddaughter-in-law, you’re sensible, not like the others who don’t know proper behavior. An animal is an animal. Even if you raise it for years, is it more important than people?"

"You’re right," I said, my voice steady but my insides twisting.

"Everything has its fate. Don’t blame me for being blunt—if Max was killed and eaten, that’s its fate. No one else to blame. Maybe it did too many bad things in its past life, or its owner did. Granddaughter-in-law, don’t you think I’m right?" She leaned in, eyes glittering.

I nodded:

"Grandma is always reasonable." My jaw ached with the effort of smiling.

She watched me as I forced down every spoonful. Only when I finished did she grin:

"The stew tastes good, doesn’t it?"

"Very fresh," I said, fighting the urge to gag.

"Of course. You know, mutt meat’s extra tender when you feed ‘em the good stuff. Bet you never tasted anything like it." She cackled, slapping her knee as if she’d just won a prize.

Marcus’s hand slammed his bowl to the floor. The crash echoed, stew splattering across the linoleum.

"I knew it! It was you!"

"You brat, shut up! How dare you talk back? Looking for a beating?" The old lady rose, shaking a wrinkled fist.

She turned to me, eyes cold:

"And you! Relying on your dog—I gave you some face, and you really thought I was afraid of you? Without that Malinois, what are you? Go look in the mirror. That face is a curse for husbands; only a blind fool would want you."

She grew more pleased with herself, laying down rule after rule, scribbling them on the back of a grocery receipt.

Getting carried away, she even told me to become the granddaughter of the turtle she’d kept for forty years.

"This turtle—I’ve had it for forty years. Letting you be its granddaughter is a gift. Don’t be ungrateful." She jutted her chin out, daring me to argue.

I nodded, obedient on the outside, plotting on the inside.