“Reclaim it,” I told Helen. “And serve them a formal notice to vacate.” She was quiet for a moment, then promised the papers would be ready by Monday. Behind me, the screen door banged. Delaney stood on the porch, pale as paper, her coffee mug trembling in her hand, having heard every word. “You can’t do that,” she hissed. “We have clients booked through December.”

Before I could answer, Gavin’s truck tore up the driveway and skidded across the gravel. He leaped out, shouting that I was destroying his family. Then Delaney turned to him, her voice cracking. “Tell her, Gavin. Tell her what really happened to Raymond’s furniture.” My son froze mid-step, and the look on his face told me it was far worse than I had imagined.