“Late one night,” Frank continues, “I’m in my kitchen, having a beer, watching the game. Doorbell rings. I open it, and there he is. Walks right past Bruno—my Rottweiler, hundred and twenty pounds and a bad motherfucker more often than not—but he walks right past ‘im like the dog was a f*****g houseplant. Bruno just sat there. Whimpering, tail tucked between his legs. I’ve never seen that before nor since, man. Never, never.”
Frank takes another shaky swig of beer.
“Your brother sat at my kitchen table and started laying out photos. My daughter Melissa. At her apartment in Wicker Park. At the Whole Foods on Ashland where she does her shopping. Getting into her boyfriend’s f*****g Subaru.” He swallows. “He never said he’d hurt her, nothin’ that crazy, you know? Never made a single explici
