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“What? No! That’s not—Dad, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“Sure sounds like it,” he snapped. “You want me under your roof so you can manage me like I’m some burden to organize.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. This wasn’t about logic anymore. His pride was hurt. He was spiraling.
“You’d rather just rot in that house, sitting by candlelight with a baseball bat by the door?” I shot back, frustrated despite myself.
“I’d rather not feel like an old man with nothing to show for a lifetime of work!” he barked, pushing back his chair. It scraped loudly against the concrete patio. “I don’t need you—or Xander—or anyone else telling me how to live.”
“You brought Xander into this?” I asked, incredulous.
“He’s your boss, isn’t he? Or is that just part of it now?” he said, bitterly, and I flinched.
I stood slowly, palms flat against the table. “I’m going to help with the electric. Just—please don’t go home until the door is fixed. That’s all I’m asking.”
He didn’t respond. He just shook his head like he couldn’t stand to hear another word from me, then turned and walked away—fast, too fast for someone who’d claimed his knees were giving him trouble last week.
I didn’t follow. I sat back down, staring at the empty space across from me, heart hammering in my chest.
Something was wrong. He wasn’t just broke—he was scared. Hiding something. The break-in didn’t feel random anymore. And if he wouldn’t tell me the truth, I was going to have to find it myself.