When she finally spoke, her voice broke into a jagged, wet sob — not shock, but a decades-old dam giving way.

“She used to do this to me,” she whispered, the words tumbling out. “When I was a teenager. When Dad wasn’t around. She’d break things and make me clean them up while she mocked me. She’d withhold food. She told me I was crazy. She convinced me I made it all up in my head. I thought I was insane.”

My eyes stung. The monster hadn’t been born today. She’d been living in our family for years, hiding behind a pristine reputation.

“You’re not crazy, Paige,” I said. “She’s exactly what you thought she was. But right now Brooke is bleeding and crying in that room and my son is in that woman’s arms. I want to tear the house down, but if I do, it’s a war zone. I need them out safely first.”

Paige sniffled, and then the crying hardened into something like steel.

“Tell me what you need. Exactly what to do.”