We had pizza for dinner. Dad was with us for a bit, talked about how the Cubs are doing.
He told Davis he needed to do a better job of watching out for me, and then Davis was, like, I’m not his father.
He and Dad were always sniping like that, though. Dad put a hand on my shoulder when he got up to leave, which felt a little weird.
I could really feel him holding on to my shoulder. It almost hurt. Then he let go and headed upstairs.
Davis helped me with my algebra homework and then I played Battlefront for another couple hours.
I went upstairs around midnight and fell asleep. I didn’t see Dad after he said good night.
There were also pictures—almost a hundred of them—of every room in the house. Nothing appeared disrupted.
In Pickett’s office, I saw stacks of papers that seemed to have been left for an evening, not for a lifetime.
A cell phone could be seen on his bedside table.
The carpets were so clean I could see a single set of footprints leading to Pickett’s desk, and a single set leading away from them.
The closets were full of suits, dozens of them perfectly aligned from lightest gray to darkest black.
A photograph of the kitchen sink showed three dirty dishes, each with little smudges of pizza grease and tomato sauce.
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