The last couple of years seemed to have settled heavily on his shoulders. His once-dark hair was now mostly gray, thinning at the crown. His posture, always straight and confident when I was a little girl watching him fix things around the house, was slightly bent, as if he’d been carrying something too heavy for too long.
His eyes scanned the scene—the patrol cars, the uniformed officers, Victoria vibrating with rage, Lily clutching her phone like a lifeline, and finally me, standing with my suitcase by the driveway.
“Alexandra?” he said, his voice small against the roar of the ocean behind him.
“Dad,” I replied. “Did you even read what you were signing when Victoria asked you to transfer the house?”
He looked at Victoria, then at me. His mouth opened and closed. “She said… she said it was just a formality. That you didn’t care about the house. That you were always too busy with your life in the city to maintain it, to come up here anymore. She said it would be easier if—”