"So do you."
The uncomfortable silence was broken by the sound of a key in the lock. Aaliyah entered, freezing in the doorway at the sight of the stranger who was somehow familiar from the single photograph she'd kept hidden in her room. Recognition flickered across her face, followed by a complex mix of emotions too tangled to name.
The moment stretched between them until Caleb finally spoke. "You have your grandmother's eyes." Awkwardly, he extended a hand instead of attempting an embrace, respecting the distance of years. "I'm sorry I wasn't here."
The simple acknowledgement broke something open in Aaliyah. She moved forward to tentatively accept his handshake, a first connection that spoke volumes about damage and hope.
"They told us you were dead," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
"In some ways, I was."
While Aaliyah changed out of her school uniform, Caleb methodically inspected their apartment with professional precision. He examined door locks, window frames, and sight lines with practiced efficiency.
"This place is indefensible," he muttered, making mental notes.
Monica watched him with growing concern. "Caleb, this isn't a combat zone."
"Isn't it?" His gaze was steady. "Threatening messages, property damage, physical intimidation... those are terror tactics. Your daughter is being systematically targeted, and you were fired for trying to protect her. That's warfare, just without the artillery."
When Aaliyah returned, she spread her documentation across the kitchen table: screenshots of threats, photographs of vandalism, a timeline of escalating incidents. Caleb studied each item with the focus of a tactical assessment.