Mirrors and Misdirection
Day 29
🍽Author's Note: This post is part of the “30 Days of Fright” writing challenge with
andToday’s theme was “Reawaken the Classic,” which means to take a well-known horror tale, myth, or classic mystery and retell it in our own voice. Twist the setting. Shift the tone. Keep the bones, but dress them in new skin.
I’ve always loved the slow-burn unraveling of an Agatha Christie novel—especially And Then There Were None. A dinner party turned trap. Guests with secrets. A final reckoning served cold.
So I thought... what if my narrator walked into one of those rooms? What if the ones who’ve been playing her finally brought her to the table—expecting her to eat, not bite?
This isn’t a retelling, exactly.
It’s a reckoning.
The room may be velvet instead of Georgian, and the threats may wear lipstick and wine—but the game is the same:
Get them talking.
Let them confess.
Then flip the whole damn table.
Enjoy
DAY 29: The Course of Corruption
(Continued from Day 28)
I take her hand.
Not because I want to. Not because I forgive anything.
But because it’s expected.
Her skin is cool and powdered smooth, like she was dipped in flour before being pressed into shape. No ring. No warmth. Just polish. Her grip is confident, but not eager. She’s not trying to impress me.
She’s already sure she’s won.
“Please,” Bellamy says, gesturing toward the long table like it’s a throne. “Let’s sit. We have so much to discuss.”
I sit.
Not at the head. Not at the side. At the seat she chooses for me, precisely three places from her own. Like a guest of honor. Like bait.
The chair creaks beneath me, upholstered in something soft and expensive. The table is set like it expects royalty: gold-rimmed glassware, black napkins folded into knives, menus that don’t list prices—just courses, like commandments.
I don’t speak.
I don’t have to.
Because Bellamy does.
“Oh, darling,” she sighs, crossing one elegant leg over the other. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”
Caldwell stands behind her like a sentry, hands folded, face smooth as polished stone. That same sheriffly stance he always used when he was pretending not to be corrupt. But now? It’s not pretense. It’s performance. And he’s not even the star.
“I want to begin,” Bellamy says, “by thanking you. Truly. We wouldn’t be where we are without your… enthusiasm.”
Her voice lilts with a kind of indulgence that makes my molars ache. She lifts a glass of something red—too dark to be wine, too thin to be blood—and sips it delicately.
“You gave us legitimacy,” she continues. “You made our restaurants desirable. Chic. The way you described the caramelization on that duck confit? Poetry. They bought in: hook, line, soufflé spoon.”
I say nothing.
Because I’m counting her tells.
Her need to gloat. Her measured pauses. The way Caldwell keeps glancing at the mirrored wall, like it might hold back something worse than guilt.
“But then,” Bellamy says with a little pout, “you got smart. The pierogies. The zip ties. The trap you set at The Bitter Herb. Really, I admire it.”
She leans forward, voice low now. Not for secrecy—just for drama.
“But admiration doesn’t cancel debt, sweetheart.”
A door opens behind me.
Footsteps—two sets, maybe three. Slow, soft-soled, quiet as guilt.
“Let’s talk about what you owe.”
Still I say nothing.
I lift my water glass. Take a sip. Let it cool the heat rising beneath my ribs.
“You cost us,” Bellamy murmurs. “Eyes we didn’t want. Auditors. Shipments delayed. Phones tapped. People asking questions no one used to ask.”
Caldwell finally speaks. “We had a good thing going. Until you made it personal.”
He walks to the table. Sits opposite me, his badge nowhere in sight. But his belt still holds a gun. Old habits.
“You could’ve just kept writing your little columns,” he says. “But you had to poke around. Ask about Bellamy. Set bait. Think you were clever.”
I finally speak. Just once.
“I was.”
He flinches.
Bellamy doesn’t.
She smiles. “We know you didn’t come here alone. We know your lawyer’s outside. We even know the chief is monitoring the feed from this building’s security system.”
She snaps her fingers, and a screen flickers on the far wall—black and white footage. I see a sedan parked two blocks down, nondescript. Tinted windows. Engine idling.
Bellamy tilts her head. “Recognize it?”
I do.
But it’s not the lawyer’s car.
It’s a decoy.
And I know it.
Because I can still hear the lawyer in my ear, his voice low, steady, feeding back every name and timestamp through the tiny mic hidden in my collar.
Bellamy doesn’t know that.
But I do.
And I smile.
Because they’re watching her watch me.
She leans back, resting one perfect hand against the tablecloth.
“You think this ends tonight,” she says. “But endings require leverage. And you gave that up the moment you stepped through the door.”
On the table between us, the first course sits cooling: ratatouille, sliced and stacked with elegance, layered like a lie. I lift my fork, take one slow bite.
The flavors bloom. Tomato, garlic, eggplant, olive oil.
Humble things. Honest things.
Which is probably why they don’t belong in this room.
Bellamy smiled like a cat that had finally coaxed the bird into her lap.
Caldwell stepped behind my chair—not menacing, not casual, just close enough to be a warning.
“You see,” Bellamy purred, reaching for her wine, “everyone has their place at the table. And tonight, darling, you’ve finally accepted yours.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Because the second she raised that glass to her lips, I heard it.
Three sharp knocks.
Then—
Boom.
The back door burst open like thunder rolled in human form.
Voices. Shouts. The slap of boots on tile. Flashlights scattering shadows. Silver badges and darker suits. The room fractured like glass under a sudden heel.
Bellamy stood, stunned. The glass fell from her hand and shattered.
Caldwell cursed and went for something beneath his jacket—but no weapon appeared.
Just panic.
The mirrored wall split down the center and pulled back, revealing a half-dozen officers. Noatrics. No warnings. Just the kind of presence that doesn’t ask permission.
I stayed seated.
The wire in my collar still hummed, quiet now, but warm.
The lawyer came in last. Making sure I didn’t have to do this alone.
Bellamy’s eyes met mine. Wide. Wild. Cornered.
“You... set us up,” she said.
I tilted my head. “You handed me the menu.”
Caldwell was on the ground now, face-down, swearing through his teeth as someone zip-tied his wrists. Again.
Bellamy didn’t fight. She just stood there, the ruin of the night written in her posture. Elegance undone.
A younger officer read her rights aloud like he’d been practicing. Her name cracked the silence like a gavel.
Sabine Bellamy: Conspiracy. Racketeering. Money laundering. Fraud.
Her lipstick was still perfect.
I finally stood.
Walked past the wreckage of the dinner. Past the ruined amuse-bouche and the still-warm Ratatouille.
Toward the far end of the table, where the chocolate cake sat, glossy and
I lifted a fork. Took one perfect bite. Let it melt slow on my tongue.
Then turned to watch them drag her away. I found a to-go box and put the whole cake in it.
The room smelled like clove, corruption, and victory.
And I was glad I hadn’t had to use the taser.
Knowing me, I’d have shocked myself and fallen into the cake. And that would’ve been a real loss.
RECIPE: Mirror-Glazed Chocolate Torte (Deceptively Perfect)
Serves 8–10
For the cake:
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 cup buttermilk
1/2 cup vegetable oil
2 eggs
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 cup hot water
For the glaze:
1/2 cup water
1 cup sugar
2/3 cup sweetened condensed milk
4 oz dark chocolate, chopped
1 tbsp powdered gelatin + 2 tbsp cold water (to bloom)
Instructions:
1. Bake the cake: Preheat oven to 350°F (175°C). Grease and flour a round springform pan.
2. Whisk dry ingredients together. Add wet ingredients (buttermilk, oil, eggs, vanilla) and mix until smooth. Stir in hot water last.
3. Pour into pan and bake 30–35 minutes. Cool completely.
4. Make the glaze: Bloom gelatin in cold water.
What does that mean?
“Bloom gelatin in cold water” means:
You sprinkle (or sprinkle and stir) powdered gelatin over cold water and let it sit undisturbed for a few minutes—usually about 5 minutes. This allows the gelatin granules to absorb the water and swell up, turning into a soft, jelly-like mass. This process is called “blooming” and it’s important because it helps the gelatin dissolve smoothly when you later heat it, preventing lumps and ensuring a good texture in your recipe.
Here's how:
1. Pour cold water into a small bowl.
2. Sprinkle the powdered gelatin evenly over the surface—don’t dump it all in one spot.
3. Let it sit for 5 minutes (no stirring).
4. The gelatin will absorb the water and swell up—now it’s “bloomed” and ready to be melted into your recipe.
You're welcome.
In a saucepan, combine sugar, water, and condensed milk. Bring to a simmer, then remove from heat.
5. Stir in chocolate and bloomed gelatin. Mix until smooth. Strain and let cool to 90–95°F before pouring.
6. Glaze: Place the cooled cake on a wire rack over a baking sheet. Pour the glaze over the top in one smooth motion. Let it set 10 minutes.
Optional: Top with berries
Mandatory: Serve after someone incriminates themselves.
Pairs well with poetic justice, velvet lies, and the sound of handcuffs.
Soooo good! She got her just desserts!!!