My brow furrowed.

I hadn’t tried to log in today.

The system showed three failed attempts within the last twenty minutes.

The IP address listed was not the hospital’s public Wi-Fi.

I copied the IP address and ran a quick trace, a habit left over from my years as a fraud investigator for the Department of Defense.

The location pinned back to my own suburban home, forty miles away.

Someone was sitting inside my house, trying to hack into my military records.

My mind raced.

I had given my house keys to my father, Richard, so he could water the plants and feed my dog while I was in the hospital.

I called my home security system app.

The living room camera showed the overhead lights were on.

Sitting at my dining room table was my father.

He wasn’t watering plants.

He had my personal laptop open, and he was typing rapidly, occasionally consulting a stack of my paper tax documents.

He held his phone to his ear.

I tapped the microphone icon on my app to listen to the live feed.

“The password isn’t working,” my father said to whoever was on the line.

“I need her DoD ID number to reset the security questions.”

He paused, listening to the person on the other end.

“No, Diane, she’s still doped up on pain meds,” he said, his voice cold and flat.

“She won’t notice the transfer until we’re back from the cruise anyway.”

“Just get me the routing number.”

I sat up straight, ignoring the sharp pull on my stitches.

I pressed the screen to speak through the camera speaker.

“Get out of my house, Dad,” I said, my voice shaking with rage.

On the screen, my father jumped, nearly spilling his coffee.

He looked up at the camera lens in the corner of the ceiling.

He didn’t look ashamed.