The house had never felt so unfamiliar tools.
Elena stood in the small bathroom with one hand resting gently on her father’s shoulder and the other holding the phone she had used to document everything. The person in front of her was the same man who had taught her how to ride a bicycle, who had waited outside every school performance, who had once driven through a snowstorm just to bring her a forgotten suitcase thief.
But now he looked smaller.
Not weaker. Never that.
Just tired.
“Dad,” Elena whispered, “you should have told me.”
Her father, Thomas Vance, looked down at his hands.
“I tried.”
The words carried more pain than anger.
“I called you three times.”
Elena closed her eyes.
“My number changed last year.”
“I know.”
She looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
Thomas hesitated.
