I shook my head, not understanding how I could’ve missed something like that. “No. No—I didn’t know. What happened?” My voice barely worked. “Is she okay?”

I couldn’t breathe past the pressure building in my chest. Couldn’t think past the image forming in my mind.

Tiffany didn’t answer.

“Tell me,” I demanded, my voice harder now.

“I’ll tell you on the way⁠—”

“No,” I snapped. “You’ll tell me now.”

Tiffany’s eyes narrowed as she watched me, something in her expression almost satisfied. “She broke down,” she finally said. “She trashed your…well, everything. She hurt herself.”

I stared at her, unblinking.

“What do you mean she hurt herself?”

“She cut up her hand pretty bad,” she went on. “She’s okay,” she rushed to add as she noticed the horror spread across my face. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

The words didn’t do much to ease the sick feeling that was already crawling its way up my throat. “I need to see her.”

“Blake, she’s not⁠—”

I didn’t want to hear the rest. I was already pushing past her, shoving the door open. My pulse was hammering in my ears, drowning out whatever else Tiffany was saying.

I barely registered her calling my name, trying to catch up.

I ran the whole way home.

* * *

The streets blurred. My legs ached. My lungs burned.

My heart lurched when the house came into view.

I barely slowed as I reached the porch steps, taking them in a single, desperate leap and shoving the door open with more force than necessary. “Beverly?” My voice cracked. “Beverly!”

The hallway light flickered faintly, barely illuminating the framed photos on the wall. One of them—a picture of the four of us at Big Bear Lake—caught my eye. Dad’s arm was slung around my shoulder, a proud smile on his face. Beverly was on his other side, laughing at something I couldn’t remember.

I turned toward the living room, the lump in my throat growing. I found Mom sitting on the couch, staring at the television. The screen was black, the reflection of the dim lamp the only thing staring back at her.

She didn’t move. She didn’t even blink. She just sat there, gripping the armrest like it was the only thing holding her together.

I opened my mouth to say something, but she beat me to it.

“Beverly’s not here.”

“Not here?” I took a step forward. “Where is she?”

Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to respond but had forgotten how. Her gaze never left the black void of the TV.

“Mom,” I tried again, softer this time. “Where’s Beverly?”

She didn’t turn her head. Didn’t meet my eyes. She exhaled, her fingers tightening around the couch fabric.

For a second, I thought she hadn’t heard me.