“Don’t you dare speak to your mother that way,” the male officer barked, stepping toward me.

Helena moved between us, her eyes blazing. “You are completely misreading this! She didn’t abandon them — she’s fleeing a house where she’s treated like a slave!”

Lydia sneered, the victim mask slipping for a fraction of a second to reveal the venom underneath. “Stay out of this, Helena. You don’t have children.

You have no idea what it takes. Savannah is just a rebellious, confused teenager.”

“I am not a piece of furniture you can drag back to clean your kitchen,” I said, forcing the words through a tightening throat. “I am not going back to that house.”

Lydia’s eyes darkened. The sorrow vanished, replaced by a raw, dangerous fury that made the air feel unbreathable. She reached into her purse, her hand digging past crumpled receipts and loose change.