“That’s Patricia’s shell company,” I said, my throat dry. “She uses it for her commercial real estate developments.”

“He stole your medical recovery fund,” my father said.

He slipped the phone into his breast pocket.

His hands were clenched into tight fists at his sides.

“We have to pay the hospital before they discharge us tomorrow,” I said. “The physical therapy, the medication, the baby’s pediatric exams.”

I felt a cold sweat break out along my collarbone.

“We will pay it,” he said.

“With what?” I asked. “Your pension is tied up in the mortgage on the cabin. I don’t have a single dollar left.”

My father looked out the glass doors.

The rain was starting to smear the yellow streetlights outside.

“I have resources from my days in military logistics,” he said.

He looked back at me, his eyes sharp.

“Patricia thinks she is clever with paperwork,” he said. “But her real estate firm leaves a trail.”

“She has three law firms on retainer, Dad,” I said. “They will bury us.”

“Lawyers cost money,” he said. “And money requires a clean source.”