Lisa sighed, rolling her eyes as if I were a toddler throwing a tantrum over a toy. “And we need the money, Mom. God, stop being so dramatic. What are you going to do with that land anyway? You’re old. You’re retired. You can’t take it with you when you die.”

She took another drag, her eyes narrowing. “Just sign the damn paper so we can get paid and get this over with. I’m tired.”

I’m tired.

Those two words shattered whatever hope I had left. The drugs hadn’t just taken her health; they hadn’t just taken her career or her looks. They had surgically removed her soul. The daughter I loved was dead, replaced by this hollowed-out husk that viewed her mother not as a person, but as an obstacle to a dopamine hit.

Travis laughed—a manic, high-pitched sound that grated on my nerves. “See? Even your daughter knows you’re useless. You’re just taking up space, Martha. Sign it!”

He grabbed my wrist, forcing the pen into my trembling fingers. He shoved my hand toward the paper. “Do it, or I drop this lighter. I swear, I’ll do it. We’ll all go up. I don’t care anymore.”

I looked at the paper. The words swam before my eyes. Transfer of Title. Irrevocable.

I looked at Lisa one last time. She was checking her fingernails, indifferent to the fact that her husband was seconds away from committing murder-suicide.