The kitchen fell into a dead silence, thick and suffocating. The only noises slicing through the stagnant air were the rhythmic, aggressive sizzle of frying meat from Mrs Storm's pan and the muffled, rhythmic thuds of Sarah and her gym instructor lingering somewhere in the depths of the living room.
Fedora sat frozen, a statue of bottled nerves, patiently awaiting a reply from his mother. He studied her with surgical precision, noting the familiar armour of her cold detachment, the way she stirred the contents of the pan to her exact satisfaction, the sharp, authoritative tap-tap of her spatula against the pan's circumference before she carelessly tossed it into the sink.
Mrs Storm remained unreadable, a fortress of indifference.
