He exhales like he’s been holding that in for a while.
We don’t say anything else about it.
The house is exactly where I left it.
And nothing like I left it.
Tony tries to stop me from going inside—steps in front of the door, one hand braced on the frame—but I shake my head.
“I need to see it.”
The insurance adjuster is already there. Clipboard. Camera. Professional distance.
I follow him through rooms that don’t feel like mine anymore.
Waterlines stain the walls. Floorboards buckle underfoot. The basement smells like rot and damp insulation. My bedroom—Christ—my bedroom smells like smoke and mildew and something else I don’t want to name.
When the agent finally leaves, I roll my sleeves up.
“I’ll clean it,” I say.
Tony opens his mouth to argue?—
—but Mark, Dan, Seth, and Tony’s uncle step in behind him, duffels already on the floor.
“We cut the vacation short,” Mark says. “Figured you weren’t doing this alone.”
Something lodges in my throat.
We work until our hands ache.
Bagging ruined things. Dragging debris. Stacking what can be saved. No one asks permission before lifting, fixing, helping.
“At least she left the couch alone,” Mark mutters at one point. “I’ve been sleeping on it for two nights.”
I huff out a breath that almost feels like a laugh.
Tony’s uncle arrives mid-afternoon, quiet authority filling the room the way smoke used to.
“It’s done,” he says. “Judge signed off this morning.”
My stomach twists.
“She spent the night in the psych ward,” he continues evenly. “Suicide watch. After that, they booked her. A couple felonies. A couple misdemeanors. Charges are adding up.”
I brace a hand on the counter.
“The most important thing,” he adds, “is we got a protective restraining order against you. She’s not allowed anywhere near you.”
I nod. I should feel relief.
Instead, shame floods me—hot, irrational, suffocating.
“Her friend from Boston—Chloe—posted bail,” he goes on. “She’s staying with her for now. And her therapist flew in, spoke at the hearing. Said Sage has been under her care and will continue to be.”
“What kind of care?” Mark asks.
Tony’s uncle exhales. “Psychiatric. Breakdown. Bipolar disorder. Split personality. Some of it’s sealed—HIPAA—but enough came out to paint a picture.”
