She stands slowly and her gaze flicks—not to me—but to the corner of the room.
My guitar.
The one leaning against the chair. The one my mother gifted me.
“No,” I say hoarsely. “Sage—don’t.”
She grabs it by the neck and swings.
The sound is sickening. Wood splitting. Strings screaming. The body cracks against the bedframe and then again against the wall.
Once.
Twice.
The neck snaps clean through.
Something in my chest breaks with it.
“Get out,” I say. My voice is steadier than I feel. “Get the fuck out of my house.”
She turns on me then, eyes blazing.
“I should call the cops,” she says, breathless. “You pushed me. You attacked me.”
I touch my throat.
My fingers come away trembling.
“Go for it. ” I say quietly. “The fingerprints on my neck will prove otherwise.”
She freezes.
Just for a second.
Then her mouth twists into something ugly.
“You don’t even know who they’ll believe,” she spits.
I don’t argue.
I don’t raise my voice.
I pick up my phone with shaking hands and dial.
Tony answers on the second ring.
“Ethan?”
“I need you,” I say. “Now.”
He doesn’t ask questions.
“I’m on my way.”
I grab my coat, my keys, my wallet—nothing else. I don’t look at the bed. I don’t look at the guitar pieces scattered across the floor like bones.
I walk out the door without shoes, cold biting into my feet, my breath fogging in ragged bursts.
