Too busy to answer her phone or texts? I scoff, my foot tapping as fast as my mind is spinning. Chatted? I am ninety-nine percent sure Sarah is lying about what she did or didn’t say to Ava, and I know with absolute certainty that even if I ask her, she won’t be honest. And I hate that I can’t trust someone who has been part of my life for the last twenty years. But it’s fact. Ava has been back in this groove since spending time with Sarah.

I grab my phone when it chimes and deflate when I see it’s John. I ignore him. Then I inhale when it chimes again and deflate, again, when I see it’s Sam. But he’s given me Kate’s number, no questions. Before I dial it or text her, I try Ava again. Nothing. And after trying Kate then Sam and getting no answer from them either, I toss my phone on the opposite couch in a temper. “Why the fuck won’t anyone answer their fucking phones?” And fuck, I need to get rid of these couches. I’m just about to demand Sarah to do that when my mobile starts ringing.

“It’s mine,” Sarah says, holding up her phone as I’m about to dive across the coffee table toward the couch. “He’s here,” she says, looking at me. “I’ll send him.”

“What’s going on?”

“Leak in the plant room.”

My shoulders drop, and I drag myself up, claiming my phone and leaving. This day. This fucking day. I grumble and mutter as I pace through The Manor, ignoring anyone who speaks to me.

When I arrive in the plant room, John’s on his hands and knees, his suit jacket removed, a towel bunched up by the dehumidifier. “Motherfucker,” he grumbles, twisting at something.

At least he’s not calling me the motherfucker for once. “How bad?” I ask, joining him, seeing his face straining as he tries to unscrew one of the joints on the outlet pipe.

“Bad enough,” he grunts and then gasps, dropping his hold and wiping his brow. “Bastard thing is jammed.”

I wrestle off my jacket and nudge John out of the way. “Have you isolated the water supply?” I ask, and he grunts his reply, so I get a good grip of the joint and twist. It doesn’t budge.

“Told you,” John says, keeping an eye on the pressure gage. “Jammed.”

I adjust my grip, getting a better angle, straining to loosen the thread. Nothing. “Fuck,” I snap, kicking a pipe in anger. I growl and take hold of the joint again, twisting on a yell, straining hard.

Ping.

It pops right off, and the O-ring falls to the tile. I pick it up and inspect the corroded piece of rubber. “Seal’s knackered,” I say, tossing it at John and collecting my jacket.