She stared at him.
“You are not thinking clearly.”
“Leave.”
“I should speak to an attorney about whether you’re competent to manage—”
The ceramic mug beside Noah’s hand shattered against the floor.
He had swept it away without seeming to notice.
Coffee spread across the tile.
Diane flinched.
Noah did too.
The sound jolted through him like an electrical surge.
All expression left his face.
I crossed the distance.
“Noah.”
He looked at me, but the recognition came slowly.
“Cal.”
“I’m here.”
His knees began to fold.
I caught him beneath the arms.
Diane moved toward us.
“Noah, stop being dramatic.”
Caleb stepped between her and the table.
“That’s enough.”
“This is my son.”
“This is private property,” Caleb said. “You’re leaving.”
“You can’t—”
Owen opened the exterior door.
“Now.”
Diane clutched her handbag.
Her gaze fixed on Noah as he sagged against me.
“You’ll regret treating your mother this way.”
