And stopped.
A large hole had been punched through the drywall beside the fireplace.
White dust covered the hardwood floor.
Jagged pieces of plaster hung from the edges.
I stared at it, searching for an innocent explanation.
Maybe the movers had dropped something.
Maybe a piece of furniture had struck the wall.
Then I noticed a second hole near the hallway.
Same size.
Same height.
I walked toward the guest bedroom.
There was a third hole beside the window.
My heart began pounding.
Three damaged walls.
Three rooms.
And all the holes appeared to be about shoulder height on Brian.
Then I remembered the water.
I hurried into the kitchen.
The faucet was wide open.
Hot water rushed into the sink, sending steam across the window.
I turned it off.
The sudden silence lasted less than a second.
Because I could still hear water upstairs.
I ran up the staircase.
