The text came at 2 a.m. like it was good news—my mother casually told me she’d sold my house while I was away, using an old legal document, and spent the money on my sister’s wedding. When I told her to stop the deal, she laughed—called me selfish, dramatic, ungrateful—and said I could “explain myself” at the family reunion.

Inside, the kitchen smelled faintly of tomato soup and crayons. Angela sat at the table with Luca, who was frowning heroically at a subtraction worksheet. Sofia was on the floor by the island with a box of colored pencils, drawing something involving horses and explosions. Angela looked up at the sound of the door. Her face changed the second she saw our expressions.

“Did they find us?”

“No,” Crawford said, because fear deserves the truest useful answer available. “But we’re moving now. Ten minutes. Pack essentials only.”

I watched her grip the table edge. “You told me this place was clean.”

“It was,” I said, stepping forward. “I’m sorry. We are not waiting around to see whether it still is.”

She looked at me then, really looked. She knew me well enough by that point to recognize when I was carrying blame in a way I had no time to discuss. Angela did not ask questions. She stood and started moving.