Dead by Breakfast

     Staff bustled about the room, serving food and whisking away dishes. It was an early morning in the Appleby household. The table was set and breakfast was underway.

     At the head of the table sat Lord Reginald Appleby. He was a severe looking man, at least sixty and fully gray. His short hair was combed neatly to the side, his goat tee a sharply groomed point. The Lord’s eyes were a cold, intimidating blue.

     To his right sat his daughter, Tiffany, her blonde hair in perfect finger curls. The pair stared at the empty seat across from her. The Lord Appleby annoyed, Tiffany worried.

     Then, in a burst of noise and fabric, Christopher Appleby arrived to his place. “Father, Tiffany, hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”