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But for the first time in days, I didn’t feel dread creeping back in.

Because no matter how dysfunctional things might get, we had this.

Our inside jokes. Road trip playlists. Sweaty hotel sex.

Chinese takeout and shared glances that said you’re my person even if this whole world burns down around us.

And of course, we had Nacho—snoring in the backseat, drooling on the same dog bed we’d brought from Idaho to Vegas like he was living his best damn life.

Vegas may have been temporary, but the way I felt driving away from it?

That felt dangerously close to permanent.

We didn’t leave Vegas right away. Because nothing says mature adult couple like circling a Starbucks drive-thru three times arguing about whether Jon’s phone or mine had the “real” GPS app.

Eventually, I took over and guided us out of the city, waving goodbye to the glowing strip in the rearview mirror like it was an ex we were still emotionally attached to.

Jon, sunglasses on, elbow resting out the window like a trucker in a country music video.

Nacho had claimed the middle seat in the back, snuggled into a nest of crumpled fast food bags and a towel, blissfully unaware that his five- star vacation was officially over.

Meanwhile, I played DJ, which mostly involved scrolling through Spotify and skipping every song after four seconds because “this doesn’t match my road trip vibe. ”

We took Route 93 out of Nevada, heading northeast toward Idaho with exactly zero enthusiasm.

“Do you think they’ll still be watching mushroom documentaries when we get back?” I asked as we passed a billboard for Alien Jerky and a shuttered brothel. Jon smirked.

“Odds are good. That or a conspiracy doc about how birds are government drones.”

“Honestly? At this point, I’d prefer that over another crockpot meatball sighting.”

We stopped for gas in Ely and ended up at a diner that hadn’t changed since the Nixon administration.

The waitress called Jon “sugar” and offered us “day-old pie” like it was an upgrade.

Jon, of course, accepted because he could not resist a baked good presented with vague regret.

I sipped my watery coffee and stared out the window at the endless flat nothingness, wondering how I’d ever return to a house where people weaponized suitcases with animal feces.

“You okay?” Jon asked, nudging my foot under the table.

“I’m just trying to mentally prepare for Patricia’s next episode,” I said.

“There’s only so much cat poop a woman can take before she spirals.” Jon chuckled and reached across the table for my hand.

“We’ll figure it out. Even if we have to camp in the backyard with Nacho and a bag of marshmallows.”

“Don’t tempt me. I could get into feral living.”

By the time we crossed into Idaho, it was late afternoon and the scenery had morphed into wide, golden plains with pine-covered hills rolling off in the distance like the backdrop of a sad indie film.

Nacho stretched out and farted dramatically in his sleep, filling the car with what can only be described as war crimes.

Jon nearly veered off the road trying to crack the window.

“He’s lucky he’s cute,” I muttered, sticking my head out like a golden retriever.

We rolled into Idaho Falls around 8:00 p.m. Sunday, sunburned and slightly hungover from our joy.

The closer we got to the house, the heavier the vibe became.

The laughter from Vegas was still there, but it had dimmed a little—like it knew it was about to be squashed by a woman who thinks horoscopes are a substitute for a background check.

As we turned onto Blake’s street, Jon slowed down.

“What are the odds it’s quiet inside?”

“About the same odds, Patricia has a PhD in anything but a delusion.”

We pulled into the driveway. I spotted Patricia through the front window, scrubbing something on the floor of the entryway like she was reenacting a Lifetime movie.

Her hair was in that short lesbian haircut which would have been more attractive on an actual attractive lesbian, she was wearing dish gloves, and she had a bottle of industrial cleaner in one hand and a vengeance-fueled stare in the other.

Jon and I exchanged a look. Oh no. As we stepped inside, she stood up, panting like she’d just finished an exorcism.

“Oh hey guys,” she said brightly.

“Just cleaning up the last of cat poop.” I blinked.

“I’m sorry. What?” She wiped her brow with a paper towel.

“Jeanine—Blake’s ex—put cat poop in Vance’s suitcase when she dropped him off. To trigger me. I’m finishing cleaning out the last bit of it” Jon made a choking noise. I just stared.

“Yup,” she continued, waving her gloved hand like she was swatting flies of delusion.

“She’s trying to destabilize me. I smelled it as soon as we walked in. Feral energy.”

“Oh,” I said, unsure if I was supposed to say something like that’s terrible or please seek help immediately.

Jon grabbed Nacho and bolted downstairs like a soldier retreating from an ambush.

I followed quickly, trying not to inhale whatever holy war was happening upstairs.

Once safely inside his room—which, thankfully, still smelled like Chinese takeout and our leftover Vegas cologne—I dropped my bag and collapsed on the bed.

“She’s unwell,” I said.

Jon kicked off his boots and flopped next to me.

“We’re getting our own place. No debates.”

“Yes. Like tomorrow.”

We both lay there in silence for a moment, staring at the ceiling as Nacho happily dug a sock out of Jon’s suitcase.

“You know what?” I said, rolling onto my side.

“Vegas might have ruined me for a normal life. I want turndown service. I want to shower without hearing someone scream about chakras.” Jon smiled and pulled me in close.

“Let’s go house hunting. Just you, me, and the fart goblin.”

“Deal.”

Outside the bedroom door, I could hear Patricia yelling at someone about how “the energy in this house is too reactive,” and someone else muttering about spiritual warfare.

Inside? It was calm. Quiet. Ours. I buried my face in Jon’s chest and let myself breathe again.

We didn’t find paradise in Vegas. But we’d found each other.

And with the right real estate listing, a Costco card, and enough soundproofing, we might just survive Idaho Falls too.

As night fell over Idaho Falls, the weird energy in the house began to thicken—like the air before a tornado, or the moment before Patricia opened her mouth and said anything.

Jon and I were curled up on the bed, half-watching some murder documentary and feeding Nacho leftover Chinese when my phone buzzed with a text from Patricia.

Great. Nothing like an unhinged message to ruin a murder documentary. Her text read:

“Vance just told me Jeanine tried to KICK down his bedroom door last month. This is abuse. I’m calling CPS.” I blinked at the screen. Then reread it, just in case I’d suddenly developed reading comprehension issues.

“Oh my god,” I muttered.

“She’s lost it.” Jon looked over.

“What now?”

“She’s accusing Jeanine of trying to break down Vance’s door and wants to call CPS. Like she’s Nancy Drew meets Judge Judy with a side of deeply unstable energy.” I tapped out a quick reply:

“I wouldn’t recommend that.” What I wanted to say was:

“Have you ever been evaluated by an actual mental health professional and not just your favorite Instagram meme account?”

I turned my phone over, my heart racing.

I’d already suspected Patricia wasn’t playing with a full deck, but this?

This was dangerous. And I wasn’t about to sit in a house with people this delusional without doing what any self- respecting woman with a background in fraud and risk management would do.

I opened up my private investigative apps and went full FBI.

Forget popcorn—I needed caffeine and a spreadsheet. I started with Tory.

“Oh no…” I whispered, mouth dry.

Because what I found? Was sickening. Tory—sweet, soft-spoken, mushroom documentary Tory—was a registered sex offender.

Not once. Not twice. But multiple times.

I stared at his mugshot, then down at the charges: Unlawful sexual conduct with three separate 14-year-old girls.

Multiple offenses. Across several states.

Within the last four years. My stomach turned.

“We have kids in this house,” I said out loud. Jon sat up instantly.

“What?” I turned my phone toward him.

“This is Tory. Charges. Mugshots. Repeat offenses. He’s been in and out of this house… with children.” Jon went silent. He read through it, jaw clenched .

“This is not okay,” he said.

“He needs to go.”

“Immediately.” Without waiting for another second, I created a group chat with Jon and Blake and dropped the bombshell. Screenshots. Links. Names. Dates. Everything. A beat later, Blake replied.

“WHAT THE F***.” Then another message:

“I’ll tell Lauren and Tory they need to go. Tonight.”

Finally. At least this circus was losing two clowns. And one predator. I sat back, breathing hard, heart still thumping with adrenaline and rage. Jon rubbed his face, clearly shaken.

“I can’t believe this,” I said.

“They just let him come here as he pleased? With zero background checks? Like it’s a commune for the criminally irresponsible?” Jon nodded grimly.

“We’re getting out of here, babe. House.

Apartment. Tent. I don’t care. We’re out.

” I looked at him—steady, furious, protective—and exhaled for what felt like the first time all day.

There was still chaos upstairs. But down here?

We had each other. We had a dog who didn’t talk back.

And we had a plan. Tomorrow, the real escape would begin.