It was late at night, hours after the pizzeria was supposed to be closed. But Henry was still there, sitting anxiously in his office. He drummed his fingers against the desk, his eyes darting back and forth between the blueprints strewn across it. He wasn't bothered by the disorderly state of the room, no. It had been almost four months since the death of his daughter, Charlie, and he was still hung up on it. Of course he was, she had only been three. Barely even that. He sighed, pushing the papers into a messy pile off to the side.