mother was sweeping glass jars and serving platters onto the floor.
Madison stood beside my main prep station in a cream coat, filming while Dad overturned a mixer worth more than her first car.
Mom pointed toward the walk-in refrigerator.
“Do that one too.”
Dad ripped out a control panel.
Madison laughed.
They were not stealing.
They were destroying.
For one irrational second, I wanted to drive there and scream until my throat tore open.
Instead, I called my attorney, Lena Ortiz.
“They’re inside,” I said.
“Do not go there.”
