A heavy sigh. The wall went up. “Travis, come on. We’ve been over this. Mom’s just particular. She means well. Brooke’s probably hormonal and sensitive right now. You can’t blame Mom for—”

“Paige, stop talking and look at your phone.”

While she’d been defending her, I’d clipped the last three minutes of the hidden feed — the shattered glass, the scattered pills, the ultimatum — and hit send. “I just sent you a video. Watch it. Now. I’ll wait.”

I sat in the silence of my car, listening to the garden center behind her. I heard her tap the screen.

Then the tinny playback of Lorraine’s voice leaked through: …crying because he can sense his mother is a weak, incompetent mess… get on your hands and knees…

I waited for a gasp, a shout, a question. Instead there was dead, echoing silence. “Paige?”