Page 86

“And you’re what?” I ask. “Serving papers on their behalf?”

Collins holds my stare for a second, then looks away.

“I didn’t come here to arrest anyone. But the paperwork is real. They’ve filed for conservatorship.”

Ani makes a soft sound in the back of her throat. It’s small, barely audible, but it guts me all the same. It’s the kind of sound people make when something breaks inside.

Jonah’s entire body tenses. Boone looks like he’s ready to smash someone’s head in.

They’re laying the groundwork to declare her mentally unfit. They’re going to have her returned to their control against herwill—not through force, but through court orders and legal red tape.

“If the conservatorship is granted, they’ll have full legal authority over her medical decisions, finances, and where she lives. They’ll be able to remove her from your care.”

“Bullshit!” Boone snaps. “They’re not taking her from us. How do we prove she’s fine?”

The sheriff raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“You said the paperwork is real. Fine. What’s the counter? How do we prove she’s mentally stable and this is all bullshit?”

“I don’t know,” Collins says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mental health evaluations, affidavits, maybe a lawyer who’s willing to push back hard. This isn’t my wheelhouse, Boone.”

“It is now,” Boone mutters, stepping back like he’s already ready to make shit happen.

“We’ll figure it out,” Jonah says, his voice quiet but solid.

Collins gives us a long look, then nods once. “I’ll do what I can on my end. But no promises.”

Chapter 24

Ani

The door has barely even finished closing behind the sheriff before another knock sounds.

Boone and Jonah are still near the front windows. Finn hasn’t moved from where he’s standing between me and the entryway, hands still clenched tight. He looks ready to throw something.

Boone opens the door without looking back. He doesn’t ask who it is, just swings it open, his body still and squared.

A woman stands there in a blazer and slacks. I already know this is going to be bad. The tightness of her smile, the assessing look she gives before she even opens her mouth.

“I’m with Child Protective Services,” she says. “I’m here to follow up on a report we received.”

She doesn’t glance at Mae, who’s now tucked tightly against my side. And while she does glance at each of the men, her eyes land straight on me.

“We received a report,” she continues, “that a mentally unstable woman is currently responsible for the care of a minor child without supervision.”

My blood turns to ice.

She says the words so evenly. So politely. Like she’s reading from a script.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” the woman says, still looking at me.

Nobody invites her in. But she steps across the threshold anyway.

Boone shifts closer to Mae, who’s staring at the woman. Her arms are wrapped tightly around my waist, face pressed against my hip like she’s trying to disappear.

The woman introduces herself, asks if there’s somewhere we could talk privately, and then opens a small notepad as she settles at the kitchen table.

“How long have you lived here?” she asks, pen poised.