Jeffrey stepped into the heart of the storm, his world already reduced to shards. His chest still ached from the weight of Joanne's words upstairs, but now, beneath that pain, something else stirred—resolve. Steel-hard. Irreversible.
He scanned the living room—the chaos, the accusations, the whispers slicing through the air like knives. But his eyes eventually found the one man who sat untouched by it all. Philip Winchester.
The old man was still, too still, like the eye of the hurricane. And as Jeffrey looked at him, something twisted in his gut. A strange thought crept in, uninvited.
