Dad stood.
“Did you take pictures?”
“Yes.”
“Of everything?”
“Claire told me to photograph the whole house.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
Then his expression changed.
His jaw tightened.
He stared at the damaged wall as though something had suddenly made sense.
“Dad?”
He looked at me.
“Just do what Claire tells you,” he said. “And don’t worry about me.”
I didn’t understand what he meant.
But he refused to explain.
Instead, he went outside and returned with a broom, a dustpan, and a cardboard box.
“For when your lawyer says it’s okay to clean,” he told me.
He stayed until evening.
He helped me locate the water meter.
He checked the floors for signs of damage.
He inspected the ceilings with a flashlight.
But he barely mentioned Brian again.
That night, I slept at Dad’s house.
I couldn’t bear the thought of staying alone among the holes and broken glass.
