In the center of my workspace, Madison had laid out two thick mauve yoga mats and a row of lit, lavender-scented candles.

Madison waved a hand. “Oh, that. Evan and I need a designated mindfulness space to process the trauma of our housing transition. You’ve got that huge desk in the bedroom, Laura.

You don’t need a whole room just for drawing.”

A cold, hard knot formed in my stomach. My home. My sanctuary. Dismantled while I slept.

“You moved my professional equipment,” I said, the temperature in the room dropping. “You touched my confidential client files.”

“It’s just a room, Laura,” Evan mumbled, reaching for the refrigerator handle.