This is from a 150 word challenge … including the title! Wow, the less words you get, the harder crafting a story becomes.

Perhaps

It was Amelia who told Jacob to hide the gun behind Mother’s settee, pointing it toward Father’s recliner, the one he often slept on with a bottle beneath bruised knuckles.

It was Amelia who served overcooked roast and his drink weak on purpose. She sat, prim and polished, slicing her dinner in deliberate cuts with her knife. Jacob ate without tasting, waiting, eyes focused on Father’s clenching hands.

“The meat’s dry.”

Amelia shrugged, nonchalant. “Perhaps.”

His knuckles whitened. “And my drink? Must you disappoint like your mother?”

“Perhaps.”

The storm exploded. Thunder cracked as Amelia, prim and polished, accepted his blows, blood staining the marble floor.

It was then Jacob’s turn. He reached behind the settee, searching, seeking, damp palms slapping an empty floor.

The gun was gone.

He heard a trigger click.

“Father, you knew?”

“Perhaps.”

It was Amelia who thrust a knife into Father’s back.

“Perhaps not.”