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Blood boiling, I grab the first one. A landscape I painted of the old oak tree behind our house, and before I can think twice, I drive my fist through it. The canvas tears with a satisfying rip. A big, gaping wound that mirrors the one in my soul, and suddenly I can’t stop.

Another canvas. Another hole. Dried paint scatters across the concrete floor like confetti at the world’s most depressing party.

“Callie!”

Dad’s boots thunder down the stairs, but I’m already reaching for the next painting. This one’s bigger, an abstract piece I was actually proud of once upon a time. My hands find the edges, ready to rip it in half. Maybe if I destroy them all, they can’t hurt me.

Strong arms wrap around me from behind, pinning my arms to my sides. The canvas falls to the floor, but it’s unharmed. Whole. Still taunting me.

“Easy, baby girl. Easy,” Dad soothes.

“Let me go!” I struggle against his grip, but Dad’s got the solid build of a blue-collar man who’s spent his life doing physical work. “I need to get rid of them all!”

“No, honey.” His voice is steady, calm. “Breathe.”

But I can’t. I’m shaking so hard my teeth are chattering, and the walls feel like they’re closing in. Every canvas in this basement is a reminder of who I used to be before Theo stole everything from me. The girl I’ll never be again.

I buck in his hold, trying to get out so I can rip that goddamn landscape in half.

“Jesus, Callie.” He grunts. “What happened?” Dad asks, refusing to let me go.

“Everything’s ruined!” The words tear out of my throat raw and desperate. “Everything’s fucking ruined!”

“What’s going on down there?” Mom’s voice cuts through my breakdown from the top of the stairs, sharp with concern.

Oh great. Mom’s here too! Now they can both realize how pathetic their daughter is.

“Sally, put some tea on,” Dad calls back without loosening his hold on me. “We’ll be up in a minute.” Her footsteps retreat, and with her departure, some of my gusto fades. “Talk to me, Cal.” Dad’s voice is gentle but firm. “What happened?”

“Everything.” The word comes out as a sob. “He ruined everything.” With that confession comes tears I can’t leash. The pain rips my chest open, and I can’t escape it, all I can do is endure it.

Dad doesn’t push for details, he simply holds me steady while I cry. My dad’s always been good at this, knowing when to push and when to let me fall apart safely. Eventually, I catch my breath, but a chill wracks my body. I shiver and Dad sighs.

“You’re going to be okay, Callie.” He loosens his grip slightly, testing to see if I’m going to make another grab for the paintings. When I don’t move, he turns me around to face him. “Can you walk upstairs? Mom’s making tea.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. My legs feel like jelly, but Dad keeps one steady hand on my elbow as we climb back up to the kitchen where the kettle’s already starting to whistle.

I press my lips together, watching Mom’s concerned expression deepen as I tell her and Dad about the reporter showing up at the art store and the worst of what happened between me and Theo. The whole thing sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud. Some woman hunting me down to write a story about my theft.

“That’s awful.” Mom shakes her head, her fingers drumming against the kitchen table. She glances down at a stack of mail beside her coffee mug, and she sucks in a breath. A wince crosses her features before she looks back up at me with guilt playing across her face.

“What?” I ask, caution creeping into my voice.

“Oh, Cal, I’m so sorry.” She reaches for an envelope near the bottom of the pile. “This came for you yesterday, and with the festival, I completely forgot.”

My stomach drops before I even see what she’s holding. The envelope looks official. Thick cream paper with my name typed across the front in formal black letters. My hands shake as I take it from her.

“What is it?” Dad asks from his spot at the table, still holding his mug.

I rip open the envelope, fingers shaking. The words swim on the page for a moment before they come into sharp, terrible focus. They sucker punch me, ripping the oxygen from my lungs.

Summons.

Theodore Martin vs. Callie Mae Harrison.

Theft of intellectual property. Demand for reparations.

A laugh bubbles up, but there’s nothing funny about any of this. It’s hollow and bitter.