Page 3 of None Of Your Business

She’s the fixer. She’ll know what to do.

I watch her pull out her phone, her hands shaking.

Our brother Noah answers on the second ring. “I’m booking the next flight. I’ll be there tonight.”

“I need help now,” Madison whispers.

“Do what you have to do. I trust you.”

She hangs up and disappears into the hallway. Then I hear another call connect.

“Madi?” a man answers.

“Beckett,” she whispers.

There’s a long pause, and then his voice softens completely. “Talk to me, baby.”

I stare at the floor as my sister quietly falls apart in the next room.

For the first time in my life, I realize Madison was never carrying this burden because she was strong enough.

She was carrying it because nobody else did.

∞∞∞

Madison called Beckett.

He’s her upstairs neighbor, a trauma doctor, and—I’m pretty sure—the guy she’s sleeping with.

Turns out that when things go sideways in your family, you don’t dial 911. You call someone who knows how to step into chaos without letting it explode.

Beckett brought in a psychiatrist friend, someone who could assess my mother, sparing us the flashing lights and neighbors peeking through their curtains.

Dr. Hudson Vaughn has been up there with her for over an hour. Long enough for the adrenaline to crash. Long enough for the house to settle into that brittle silence that follows a disaster.

I couldn’t breathe in there, so I stepped outside thirty minutes ago. I’ve been hiding by the hedges ever since.

When I hear the front door click shut again, I don’t turn right away, but I listen to the measured footsteps on the gravel. Shifting slightly, I spot Hudson in the dark. He’s already halfway down the path—tall and broad, wearing navy slacks and a crisp shirt, untouched by the wreck he just stepped out of. He looks like he belongs somewhere controlled. Somewhere sane. Not here.

He reaches his black SUV, opens the door, and places a work bag inside. Then he stops and looks directly at me.

“Are you alright?” he finally asks.

My eyebrows jump. “Are you alright?”

He doesn’t show even a flicker of surprise.

“You’re Madison’s sister.”

“What gave it away?” I deadpan. “The red hair?”

It’s sharper than it needs to be, but I don’t take it back. Politeness takes energy I don’t have. My joints ache, my head throbs, and my mother is upstairs, sedated into something resembling peace.

He turns fully, slipping his hands into his pockets like this is a casual sidewalk chat. I draw myself up, though at five-four, the effect is limited.

He stops a few feet away. In the dim light, his eyes are a pale, piercing blue.

“Your mother is sleeping,” he says.