Monica turned around and looked back at the house, where she had lived for years and now she couldn't really believe she was leaving it.

She didn’t want to leave.

Not like this.

Not with nothing.

But her heels were already clicking across the floor, echoing hollow and cold. The guards didn’t push. They didn’t need to.

Her sons followed behind—Jimmy looking like a kicked dog, and Mark, now had no smirk on his face, he wasn’t even talking.

At the front door, she stopped.

She turned, just once, taking in the foyer one final time. The chandelier. The staircase. The stained-glass crest above the hallway—Caldwell, it read.

But it...