My heart pounded as anger pumped through me. Hands clenched, I headed down the hall. The bedroom was a mess. The comforter and sheets stripped, piled on the floor. All my bottles of lotion and perfume were scattered.

Spinning around, I almost knocked into Reece. He reached for me, but I sidestepped him and walked into my studio.

My heart broke.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, pressing the palm of my hand against my chest as I stared into the room.

Thank God Reece had taken my easel and canvas earlier, along with my paints, because everything else in the room had been utterly destroyed. All of the paintings I’d done, even the ones of Reece I’d hidden in the closet, were torn into unrecognizable shreds. It was like rage had exploded in the room.

I shuddered. “My . . . all my stuff.”

“I’m sorry.” Reece came up behind me, wrapping an arm under my chest and drawing me to his front. His other arm came around, securing me against him. “I wish there was something I could say that could make this better for you.”

Part of me wanted to pull away and start kicking stuff. “I don’t understand.”

His embrace tightened and for a few moments, he just held me and that . . . that helped more than I thought it could, but I thought about who was waiting outside. “It has to be Henry.” Anger resurfaced, pushing away the horror and the numbness of seeing my things destroyed. I turned in his arms, meeting his gaze. “It has to be him. Who else?”

He wet his bottom lip. “Roxy—­”

“Are you seriously going to defend him? For real? I mean, none of this stuff happened until he conveniently shows up. Then he’s here, innocently knocks on my door and finds it already open? I mean, come on.”

Reece dropped his arms. “I really don’t think it’s him.”

Shaking my head, I stepped away. “It’s obvious!”

“Why would he break into your place and then call the police?” he threw out with an even, patient voice.

“Because he’s a sociopath?”

He cocked his head to the side. “Babe, the man made some shitty choices when he was a teenager and he paid for them—­he’s still paying for them—­and I don’t appreciate him showing up here unannounced, but that doesn’t make him a sociopath.”

My mouth dropped opened. “You’re seriously defending him?”

“No. He’s a jackass. Just not a sociopath.”

Disbelief thundered through me.

“He’s not defending what he did six years ago, honey.” Dad appeared in the doorway. “He’s just pointing out that it doesn’t make sense for Henry to do this and then call the police.”

I threw my hands up. “Did it make sense when he threw the rock and nearly killed Charlie?”

“Babe, this has nothing to do with Charlie.”