I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The living room looked like a hostage situation. Eleanor was clutching a throw pillow, her face chalk-white.

Chloe was pacing, biting her nails to the quick.

And Greg. He sat in my father’s old armchair with his head in his hands, trembling like a wet dog. The chest-thumping alpha from the barbecue was gone.

In his place was a terrified boy who’d played a game far above his weight class.

“They’re gone,” I said, dropping my keys onto the console table.

Chloe rushed at me and grabbed my arms. “Sarah, thank god. What did they say? Are they coming back?”