My father clicked his penlight into the middle hole, then swung the beam to a brass electrical socket anchored eight inches to the right.
“Did Brian move the floor lamps before the movers came on Sunday?”
“The floor lamps were sold in July,” I said, twisting my silver mother-of-pearl ring around my knuckle.
“The 2018 kitchen remodel permit was signed on May fourth,” I added, checking my phone screen. “Brian swore the electrical work in this wall was untouched.”
“He spent twenty minutes in this corner before he turned over the keys,” my father said. “The breaker box in the garage is unlocked.”
“Why would he open the garage panel?”
“We will look at the panel in a minute,” he said quietly.
The hiss upstairs turned into a rhythmic metallic thumping. I ran up the wooden stairs into thick, hot steam.
In the bathroom, water ran full force from both the porcelain vanity faucet and chrome bathtub spout. Three inches of warm water covered the blue cotton bathmat.
I cranked the brass cross-handles until the water stopped.
